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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23927173">Cocoon is Accurate but Chrysalis Sounds Better</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sloane/pseuds/Sloane'>Sloane</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Space Station 13 (Video Game), The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Space, Author is ace, Bisexual Arsonist Power Couple Tim &amp; Sasha, Body Horror, Canon Asexual Character, Fluff and Angst, From Space to Scottish Safehouse, Hurt/Comfort, Literal Monster Elias Bouchard, Love Confessions, M/M, Mind Meld, Moth!Elias, Moth!Jon, POV Alternating, Shared Dreams/Nightmares, Transformation, Unethical Experimentation</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 21:34:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>25,774</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23927173</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sloane/pseuds/Sloane</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Space Station 31 has been repurposed many times throughout its long history, and though it’s currently being used by the Magnus Institute for scientific research, many say it’s long overdue for decommissioning—including the staff forced to work there.</p><p>Jonathan Sims is the victim of the director’s latest desperate bid for a breakthrough to assure they keep their funding, and his assistants are left to deal with the results.</p><p>(i.e. Moth!Jon but in SPACE)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>215</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>541</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Breakthrough</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This started as a Prey AU but as the the story developed I realized it was a lot closer to being a Space Station 13 AU instead. So while the station has Prey’s sweet retro aesthetic, the nonsense that allows the rest of the plot to happen is pure SS13. The station number is 31 as a nod to Section 31... though since I have dyscalculia even I keep reading it as 13.</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you’re here thanks to that tumblr post about the list of interesting fic tags including “Bisexual Arsonist Power Couple Tim &amp; Sasha” ... Welcome!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon is suspended in warm darkness for an indeterminate amount of time. The sensation is not entirely unpleasant, it’s not knowing the exact length of the duration that bothers him. He has work he should be doing, reports that need filing, but when he tries to think of what exactly that entails his mind goes blank. He drifts in and out of consciousness, finding that when he is awake the only difference is the darkness is a little less absolute. Easier to sleep, to let time slip away that much faster.</p><p>He dreams of mundane things—work, mostly. He has nightmares of lab reports that don’t add up, and Elias standing over him and looking smug. Occasionally he dreams of Martin, his lab assistant, and wishes he had been kinder—which is ridiculous because he’s dreaming, not dead.</p><p>Isn’t he?</p><p>Jon stirs at the sound of muffled voices beyond the barrier containing him. Opening his eyes is out of the question, so he listens.</p><p>“Do I really have to be in the same room to monitor it?”</p><p>He recognizes the voice, but his waking mind is too foggy to provide a name. Everything hurts, making it hard to think. Did it hurt this much before? It seems like he would remember it if that were the case, but no, all he recalls is varying degrees of darkness. He wishes he could go back to sleep, but that would mean missing out on the conversation beyond the barrier.</p><p>“I’m afraid so,” a second voice says, the sound of it filling Jon with such seething hatred that he briefly forgets all about the pain. “The cameras have been known to malfunction with this particular subject, so we’re going to have to rely on good old fashioned observation.”</p><p>“But what if it... um, hatches?”</p><p>“Then you are to remain calm and continue observing, naturally. I assure you, it’s perfectly safe.”</p><p>Jon wants to tear through the barrier and wring the neck of second speaker. The second doesn’t KNOW if there’s danger or not. He could be dooming the first to die a horrific death of some freshly emerged and ravenous monster, but he simply doesn’t care. The second just wants to see what happens when someone is put in the same room with the subject.</p><p>Observe and report. What a cruel joke.</p><p>Jon has to do something. </p><p>He tries to push against the barrier. It’s not a wall like he initially thought—then again, he’s not sure why he thought that. It’s thin, and warm, and there’s some give to it. An organic membrane, maybe? That shouldn’t be hard to break. </p><p>But trying to move at all was a mistake. Agony shoots through his body. Stars dance behind his closed eyelids. </p><p>Too soon. He’s not ready yet.</p><p>Jon is swallowed by the darkness once more.</p><hr/><p>There hasn’t been any movement since Elias first showed Martin the cocoon, and that was days ago. Martin has a chair in the middle of the room and a data pad in his lap, but there isn’t much to see besides the occasional odd twitch. The cocoon is dark, glistening mass fused to the corner by various oily tendrils clinging to the wall, floor, and ceiling. </p><p>Martin’s first impression of the thing was that it looked evil, but he kept that to himself. The whole notion is probably due to a lifetime of media choosing to personify cancer,  pollution, and other metaphysically ‘bad’ things as oily black pulsating masses. Just because this thing he’s watching happens to be an oily black pulsating mass, doesn’t mean it’s necessarily evil. Martin keeps telling himself that as he stares at it—or Subject Delta, as it’s officially known.</p><p>He probably shouldn’t have a cup of tea with him in the same room, owing to contamination, but he also probably shouldn’t be sitting unprotected in an enclosed space with the subject, either. </p><p>It’s the little acts of rebellion that keep him of from despair.</p><p>It seemed like the cocoon responded to the the sound of their voices before, and he’s stuck in the room with it anyway, so he might as well talk about the goings on in the station.</p><p>“Peter Lukas came in on the last shuttle,” Martin says to the big pulsing mass in the corner. “I guess—I mean, if he came here personally—we got our funding approved and then some. If nothing else, that means Elias is going to be busy for a while...” Martin makes a face as the implications flash through his mind. “Ugh.”</p><p>He could swear there was a reaction when he mentions Elias, but maybe he’s projecting his misgivings about his boss on conveniently timed twitching. That’s what Jon would call it.</p><p>Martin sets his tea on the floor so he can use both hands with his data pad. Thinking about Elias and Peter going at it made him feel too nauseous to drink, anyway. He pulls up the file relevant to the cocoon, but there’s very little data available at his access level. </p><p>“I wish Jon were here,” Martin mutters, and laughs when he realizes he said that out loud. Jon would be able to pull up the full file. Jon would say he was being ridiculous for talking to the cocoon. Jon wouldn’t even look up from his work when Martin brought him tea made just the way he liked it.</p><p>Sure, he was a bit of a jerk, but Jon was still better than Elias and his insincere charm and his smiles that didn’t reach his eyes. Martin never saw Jon smile that he could recall, but still. </p><p>“You think it’s possible Elias wants me to die in here?” Martin asks the cocoon. </p><p>It twitches violently.</p><p>“You know what, forget I asked.”</p><p>But now he’s wondering about what happened to Jon, too.</p><p>Their research kept hitting dead ends, so the stress and pressure were getting to everyone. Then Jon had to return planet-side to deal with a family emergency, leaving so suddenly that he only left an e-mail in the dead of night to the genetics staff, Martin included. Elias took over presenting their findings to the board. A breakthrough resulting in the cocoon happened, but Jon was already gone by then. Elias said he could be down on Earth for quite some time, so Martin was stuck assisting him in the meantime.</p><p>Except Jon told Martin he didn’t have any family left, just an old friend from college he occasionally had vid chats with—maybe that was what Elias meant? Maybe Jon’s friend Georgie is like family to him? That would make sense. </p><p>Except the timeline of events is a bit too convenient, especially given Elias took full credit for the breakthrough that followed.</p><p>The cocoon cracks open. Martin utters a very undignified yelp.</p><p>Remain calm, Elias said. It’s perfectly safe. </p><p>Right.</p><p>Except Elias probably killed Jon.</p><p>And Elias probably wants this thing to kill him, too.</p><p>Martin clutches the data pad to his chest. No matter what happens, he will not scream. </p><hr/><p>At last, the barrier breaks. Jon is surprised by how easily it gives way. He tips forward, his fall cushioned by the fluid that gushes forth with him. He washes up against thin, hard metal and hears a shrill squeak. Everything is still. He is cold and sore all over.</p><p>Jon reluctantly opens his eyes.</p><p>The light is so bright it hurts. It’s hard to focus, so he starts from the ground and slowly works his way up. A thick gray fluid is all around him and the plain metal chair he bumped up against. There is a person squatting on the chair. Their head is surrounded by a dazzling corona of light that Jon cannot look away from. It distracts him from the absurd manner they’re perched upon the chair in—he sees only the light.</p><p>“Oh... oh dear...um, hello...”</p><p>He knows that voice. It’s Martin.</p><p>The squeak from before might have been the chair scraping against the floor as Jon bumped against it—or it might have been Martin, who scrambled up on it in an attempt to avoid making contact with him and the mess his emergence made. Understandable—the pale gray goo is disgusting enough to be covered in, let alone touching—though he can’t be comfortable like that.</p><p>Jon tries to push himself up—and freezes at the sight of his hands.</p><p>He has too many hands—four in all—and too few fingers on each one. Jon scrambles backwards, kicking the gray goo everywhere. Still only two legs, but like his hands they’re down to three elongated digits ending in wickedly sharp claws. His body is coated in a fine, dark gray fur that looks closer black thanks to the coating of slime.</p><p>Jon looks over his shoulder where the mess originated.</p><p>A huge broken cocoon is in the corner. It all makes sense now. He was in that thing, stewing for god knows how long, and he emerged from it a monster.</p><p>“Easy, easy.” Martin steps down from the chair, careful of the slime on the floor. He’s still speaking to Jon like he’s a person, but Martin also addresses house plants like they’re people. “You’ll hurt your wings if you’re not careful.”</p><p>Wings?</p><p>Jon raises his right arms—plural. It feels wrong. There’s a dark growth extending from his back, still numb and folded. The blood hasn’t worked its way through the wings yet, and it won’t until he gives them a chance to stretch and breathe—like any newly emerged moth would do.</p><p>Jon lets his arms drop and stares at his lap. He’s naked, but his genitalia are apparently now internal, leaving just a discreet patch of fluff covering his groin. It wasn’t as though sex was ever something he thought much about, but this is a bit ridiculous. </p><p>If Martin wasn’t standing right there he’d immediately set about exploring exactly how things had rearranged themselves. For science. But no, Martin is hovering there looking so worried and kind, not knowing who he really is—and Jon really doesn’t deserve his kindness after how he treated him as a lab assistant.</p><p>Did Elias really just assume he would kill him? Really?</p><p>Antennae droop into Jon’s field of vision, telegraphing his despondence. The only thing that seems unchanged is his hair, still a long and graying mess. Martin of course doesn’t recognize that amongst all the other changes, otherwise he wouldn’t be treating Jon like a spooked animal in need of placation.</p><p>Tears well in Jon’s eyes, catching him off guard, but sure, why not? If he were on the outside documenting this, he would find it fascinating that such a creature is capable of crying. </p><p>The sound Jon makes when he sobs is utterly inhuman.</p><hr/><p>“Oh dear.” Martin reaches out to the creature but hesitates to touch it. Not only is it still covered in goo, but it might not appreciate being touched. “Please don’t cry. Um... here!”</p><p>He picks up the mug of tea with some difficulty, as the slime on the floor is beginning to solidify. He holds it out to the mothman.</p><p>“I’m afraid the tea’s gone cold,” Martin says. “But maybe it’ll help.”</p><p>The mothman stares up at him with huge black eyes that glisten with tears. Martin really hopes it can understand him. Thinking of it as a moth MAN is perhaps a little presumptuous as well, but he can’t help but think of the old urban legend when he looks at the poor creature—mostly because its face appears to be blank save for the eyes.</p><p>He realizes his mistake as the mothman leans forward to drink. It’s not that it doesn’t have a nose or mouth, it’s that they’re hidden beneath the fur. A thin proboscis uncurls. The mothman recoils, somehow even more unsettled by its appearance than Martin is, but thirst wins out. It slurps the tepid tea greedily while Martin holds the cup in both hands.</p><p>The creature seems shocked and confused by every aspect of its body, but wouldn’t a caterpillar be surprised by its transformation, too? Martin felt something similar when his first major growth spurt happened during puberty.</p><p>The mothman sits back after draining the cup, its proboscis disappearing. Once again its face is blank, its emotions instead telegraphed through its dejected posture, the tears in its huge eyes, and the way its antennae droop. It nods its thanks to Martin and looks away. At least it’s stopped crying, but now it’s staring moodily into the middle distance.</p><p>“Um...” Martin clears his throat. “I’m not a <em>medical</em> doctor or anything, but I really  think you ought to stand up. Get the blood properly circulating, you know?”</p><p>Plus, selfish as it is, Martin really wants to see what those wings look like fully extended, and not just as wet lumps stuck to the mothman’s back. It seems like this should be a matter of instinct, but perhaps shock is interfering with the whole process. Martin puts the empty mug aside and offers a hand.</p><p>The mothman stares at it.</p><p>“I suppose I need to think of something to call you as well,” Martin says. “Technically you’re Subject Delta, but I don’t know, that doesn’t seem right. Maybe Dave?”</p><p>The mothman shakes its head in an emphatic no. Martin can’t help but gasp at confirmation that it understands him after all.</p><p>“Okay, then.” He smiles a little. “What would you prefer?”</p><p>He doesn’t really expect an answer. He certainly doesn’t expect the creature to reach down and use the goo on the floor to write ‘JON’ with one of its claws.</p><hr/><p>Jon underlines the name for good measure before looking up at Martin, who’s gone pale.</p><p>“Jon’s a nice name,” Martin says, his voice high and reedy with surprise. He clears his throat to get it under control. “I have a—er, I mean my boss’s name is Jon.”</p><p>Jon nods slowly and points to himself, finding it hard to avoid doing it with both arms at once.</p><p>He wipes out his name on the floor, afraid to leave it there. The slime is almost too solid to be of use to communicate, anyway. As it was he had to gouge his clawed index finger deep into it just to carve out three letters. Once he clears away his name he doubts he can manage writing much, if anything, else in the sticky muck. Even worse, the stuff clinging to him is drying as well.</p><p>Martin, meanwhile, stumbles backwards in into the chair as the full weight of the revelation hits him like a sucker punch.</p><p>“Oh god,” he whispers. “Jon? <em>Our</em> Jon? Really?”</p><p>All Jon can do is nod morosely. On some level he’s glad they established this quickly, and he would have done so sooner if not for the fact he was constantly getting distracted by the changes to his own body, but now it’s done—and he has to deal with Martin knowing it’s him. To pretend otherwise just wouldn’t be prudent, not unless he fancied spending the rest of his life as a scientific test subject or worse. He could absolutely see Elias selling him off to a sideshow attraction if all their funding somehow fell through.</p><p>Jon tries to stand, but his legs give out out almost immediately. Martin is on his feet in a flash, moving with an alacrity that Jon wishes he didn’t find so surprising. Big does not mean slow, of course. The next thing he knows he’s in Martin’s arms and being propped upright. His face is very close.</p><p>Martin blushes.</p><p>“You need to take it slow,” he says. “You were in that thing for weeks.”</p><p>Jon groans, or tries to—the sound he makes is closer to a low keening. Martin recoils, but keeps supporting him.</p><p>“C’mon, let’s get you to the showers.” Martin readjusts his grip, his lab coat already ruined. “You’re all sticky.”</p><p>Jon raises his head, his eyes wide with fear and concern. Even if Martin can technically get him through the door, it’s too risky.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Martin says. “Peter is here, remember? Half the station would have to explode before they notice anything amiss.”</p><p>Ah, yes, Peter Lukas. Jon was only barely cognizant when Martin spoke to him earlier, but just hearing his name with Elias was enough to spur him to claw his way out of the cocoon.</p><p>Martin leads Jon to the cell door as if he’s staggeringly drunk, with Jon mostly clinging to him as he drags his feet. All it takes is a wave of Martin’s identification bracelet to open the door, reminding Jon that he is no longer a person in the eyes of the station. No door will open for him, not even his own quarters. There’s no telling what Elias did to his things, least of all the clothes Jon was wearing when he ambushed him in his office.</p><p>Jon worries what will happen to Martin for helping him like this, but there’s nothing he can do to voice his fears.</p><p>All he can do for now is follow along in silence.</p><hr/><p>Martin worries about what might be going through Jon’s head. He can feel the tension in his body as he all but carries him to the showers, and it only seems to get worse the further they go along.</p><p>He wants to say he’ll protect him no matter what, but he knows Jon would only object to that. Even if he can’t talk, Martin can just imagine Jon furiously shaking his head and pushing him off and possibly even trying to flee into the air ducts just so no one can possibly endanger themselves on his account. That’s just Jon for you. </p><p>Bloody infuriating, really.</p><p>So Martin stays quiet and tries taking things one step at a time, starting with getting Jon cleaned up and his wings unfurled. It can’t be good for them to stay folded like that.</p><p>It’s technically the middle of the night, so the showers are empty. Martin lowers Jon on to the bench and considers his options.</p><p>“If you want you can stay sitting and I can use the nozzle to sort of... hose you down?”</p><p>Jon huffs and holds one hand out.</p><p>“Or you can do it yourself,” Martin says, wishing he thought of that. “Right. I’ll just turn the water on, then.”</p><p>He waits until the water is a comfortable temperature before handing it off to Jon. That particular attachment is made with accessibility in mind, so reach is no problem.</p><p>Martin snaps his fingers. “Soap! I’ll be right back.” </p><p>He leaves Jon to gather up the scented soaps and shampoo he likes, glad that they’re not kept locked away like more valuable personal items might be. He adds the fluffiest towels he can find before coming back, noting Jon is just sitting there with his head down and the water trained on his neck.</p><p>“I brought your shower things,” Martin calls, and isn’t terribly surprised when Jon doesn’t look up. His wet hair falls in a curtain that completely hides his face from view, even as Martin creeps around to set the soap with reach.</p><p>“I’ll just be over here with the towels. If you need help... well, you know.”</p><p>He hurries out of the shower room, his cheeks burning. Somehow with all the fur it didn’t occur to him until he saw him wet that Jon is very naked. There’s apparently nothing to see, because Martin couldn’t stop himself from looking, but Jon still deserves his privacy as he cleans up.</p><p>Speaking of which, Martin peels off his lab coat and casts it aside. The vintage t-shirt underneath is fine. He’s going against all regulations by letting ‘the subject’ out of his cell anyway, so why not just kick around like he’s off duty? Firing is going to be the very least they do to him when this gets out, but Martin already knows he’s going to end up doing a lot more than helping Jon to the showers.</p><p>They’re not going back to the cell after this, that’s for damn sure.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>For those of you wondering about Space Station 13, it’s a very... unique multiplayer game where virtually anything can happen (the exact nature depends on the server), and what usually happens is mayhem. It also has a steep learning curve, sort of like Dwarf Fortress, where you can accidentally punch yourself in the face trying to put on your shoes. Ah, memories.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Breach of Contract (and Hull)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon gets cleaned up just in time for Sasha and Tim to discover he’s a mothman. Plans are made.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Ah, remember when this used to just be rated T? Memories. It gets more graphic later on.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The wings start to unfold while Jon is in the shower, coaxed out by a mix of the steam and the simple the fact they cannot be held back any longer. He tries not to think about it, instead focusing on shampooing his hair—careful of the damn antennae—and then washing the muck from the cocoon off him bit by bit. </p><p>It’s everywhere. Being covered in fur only makes it that much harder to wash off.</p><p>Having two extra arms does not make the task any less of an ordeal. He can’t quite get the hang of operating each arm independently, so each new limb keeps acting as a clumsy ghost of the original unless he concentrates hard.</p><p>As the wings start to breathe with him he can feel stray droplets of water hitting them. The sensation is... odd. Not unpleasant, just different and new. It’s yet another thing he’ll just have to get used to—because he has no illusions that such profound changes to his body can be reversed. He’s just grateful his mind is intact.</p><p>Jon shudders as he passes the shower head off to one of his lower hands. No way in hell is he calling Martin back in to wash his back when he’s got four bloody hands for the task now. The new ones should be well suited to the task, but again, they’re clumsy. He manages to thread the long hose around his body easily enough, but succeeds only in blasting one of his very sensitive wings with water.</p><p>The sound of surprise he makes is... also odd. </p>
<hr/><p>Martin nearly drops the towels at the noise that echoes from the showers. It sounds like someone stepped on a cat.</p><p>“Jon?” He calls, edging back inside. “Are you okay?”</p><p>He puts the towels on the rack by the shower entrance and moves closer, his glasses quickly steaming up.</p><p>“Do you need h—oh.”</p><p>Even half unfolded, Jon’s wings are quite a sight. They’re deep black with a mix of iridescent green highlights around the white eye spots—the largest almost look like real, glowing green eyes, but it could just a trick of light mixed with the fog from the shower. As Martin gets closer he notes that one of the wings actually has accents of various shades of gray as well, it’s just that the one Martin saw first looks much darker because it’s soaking wet.</p><p>Jon tilts the shower head down to avoid spraying him and holds it out. He gestures to his back with one of his new hands, head bowed and face hidden behind a curtain of wet hair. Everything about his posture screams defeat. Worse, the way he’s hunched over suggests he fully expects to be figuratively kicked while he’s down.</p><p>Why would he assume that?</p><p>Martin gently takes the shower head from him and switches the setting to be less intense. Even then he covers it with his hand until he’s certain he can get between Jon’s wings without hitting them.</p><p>Jon tenses as Martin works his fingers into the fur along his spine. Once the wings are fully expanded Martin guesses that particular strip of fur will be largely be hidden, all the more important to get at it now while it‘s not yet fully covered. The slime from the cocoon is caked in, making it hard to work out now that it’s dried.</p><p>“Does that feel bad?” Martin asks. “I can stop.”</p><p>Jon shakes his head and gestures he continue. Martin can’t help but notice how the tension drains from Jon’s shoulders as he works. He smiles to himself and just focuses on the task. Jon probably wouldn’t appreciate more of his rambling, anyway.</p>
<hr/><p>The silence is killing Jon.</p><p>There’s so much he wants to say to Martin, starting with an apology, but he has no mouth to say it. He looks at his four hands, remembers Elias trying to teach him to sign, but he just couldn’t get the right gestures to stick in his mind.</p><p>Elias eventually grew exasperated with his inability to retain what he was taught, said maybe with time and the right motivation he could come back to it.</p><p>Was that a prelude to this? No, surely not. He wouldn’t want him communicating with anyone. It seemed he had counted on Jon emerging from his cocoon vicious and hungry, but he just felt nauseous and... morose.</p><p>Jon sighs.</p><p>Was it Elias who messed up something in the formula, or was it something Jon did while unknowingly working on the very thing that would transform him? Easier to just blame Elias for everything, but even if he wasn’t cutting a bloody path through that station he was still a monster, and on some level he did it to himself just by going along with Elias and his damned schemes.</p><p>Jon buries his face in his original set of hands and folds his new arms around his chest.</p><p>“Almost done,” Martin assures him, misinterpreting the gesture. “I imagine all this wet fur must feel awful.”</p><p>Jon harrumphs. Martin can’t even begin to imagine what it all feels like. Still, it’s nice just to sit here lulled into insensibility by the white noise of the running water while Martin runs his hands over him like he’s a show poodle. The sound of the water turning off makes Jon look up. He must have lost track of time.</p><p>Martin smiles at him.</p><p>“Your wings are looking much better,” he says. “I don’t think the water really hurt that one much, they’re probably just still tender from being new, you know?”</p><p>Jon nods, aware that the weight on his back feels less heavy. It’s undeniably there, haunting him, but it’s no longer a numb lump folded against him and dragging him down. He tries the wings and accomplishes only a weak shiver.</p><p>“One thing at a time.” Martin hands a towel to him. “Come on. Let’s go out to the locker room. Maybe if you stretch out on the bench there it’ll help get the blood flowing a little faster, but first we need to get you dried off.”</p><p>Jon nods and follows Martin.</p><p>He really is too kind.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin busies himself trying to make the hard metal bench between the lockers more comfortable while Jon towels himself off. Draping a towel over it isn’t much help. It would be better if they could go elsewhere in the station, but he’s still nervous about getting caught out with Jon. The lateness of the hour is the only thing in their favor.</p><p>Martin yawns. It’s also working against him.</p><p>He still has one towel left over, so he turns back to Jon and instantly forgets what he was going to ask.</p><p>“Oh my god,” Martin exclaims, his eyes going wide. “You’re so... so <em>fluffy!”</em></p><p>Jon glares daggers at him.</p><p>“Er, not all over, obviously.” Martin blushes. “But you’ve got like this... neck ruff?”</p><p>Jon scrunches his shoulders up in consternation, or perhaps an ill conceived attempt to hide it. Thanks to the luxurious collar of fur, he looks more like the old no-neck drawing of the cryptid than ever. It’s adorable, and Martin barely keeps himself from cooing at Jon like a cat. Jon’s antennae lay back, also just like an annoyed cat, when he catches the adoring look Martin is giving him. </p><p>“Sorry, Sorry!” Martin averts his eyes. “Didn’t mean to stare.”</p><p>Jon yanks the towel out of his hands and drapes it over his head, standing there for a moment with it completely covered before reaching up and drying his hair—or trying. Jon makes an odd, warbling noise and pulls the towel off, his antennae springing back up the instant they’re free.</p><p>“Too sensitive?”</p><p>Jon nods miserably.</p><p>“Well, letting your hair air dry can’t hurt, I suppose.” Martin peers at Jon’s long, damp locks. The graying black mixes well with the rest of his coloration. “You could also just cut it short so it dries faster.”</p><p>Jon gives him a withering look.</p><p>“Or not!” Martin puts his hand up in surrender. “It looks good long, really! I always did like it when you put it up, too. Er... not that it’s relevant.”</p><p>Jon blinks owlishly at him.</p><p>Martin can’t stop himself from blushing. He really wishes he knew what Jon was thinking.</p>
<hr/><p>The dawning realizing that Martin has—or had, because how can he possibly love him like this—feelings for him is horrifying.</p><p>Jon stretches out on the bench face down to avoid looking at him. He rejects Martin’s offer of help because he certainly can’t bear to touch him now, either.</p><p>Jon presses his face into the towel on the bench and lets all four of his arms fall over the sides to touch the tiled floor. It’s not at all comfortable, but he just has to endure it until his wings are done expanding.</p><p>The bench creaks as Martin sits at the far end, giving Jon plenty of space. Of course he’d linger. He’s too nice. He cares. The way he looked at Jon, the way he blushed, is burned into his mind.</p><p>Jon sorts through his memory for all the other little signs he missed while he was still human. Now that he thinks of it, he finds it’s all so painfully obvious. Martin and his tea. Martin trying to get him to leave the lab to sleep and then putting a blanket over his shoulders when Jon inevitably fell asleep at his desk. Jon chided him by saying he should worry more about being a proper lab assistant and not a nurse maid, but it never deterred Martin.</p><p>He’d been awful to him, and Martin kept on. Martin had every right to laugh at the fate of his horrible boss, but he helped him break out and clean up.</p><p>Jon deserves none of this.</p><p>There’s that low keening sound again, the sound he makes when he’s crying, but he can’t stop. </p><p>“What’s wrong?”</p><p>Martin is up and around the bench in a flash, kneeling down so he’s level with Jon’s face, but Jon doesn’t want to look at him.</p><p>“Jon?” Martin is getting more worried. “Please, you’ve got to at least try to—oh!”</p><p>The contact made by Jon’s antennae is accidental. Martin is hovering right by his face, they just happen to dip and touch his forehead.</p><p>Their memories collide.</p><p>Martin sees all Jon’s regrets in how he treated him. Jon sees how Martin sees him, both before and after his transformation.</p><p>Martin still thinks he’s beautiful.</p><p>Jon jerks his head back, breaking the connection with his antennae.</p><p>He wants desperately to yell, ‘how?!’ but the only sound that emerges is a shrill whine.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin stares at Jon in shock.</p><p>He knows. Oh god, he knows everything.</p><p>Jon’s huge black eyes are still filled with tears. If anything, he seems more upset than ever.</p><p>Martin tries to explain himself, but stumbles over every attempt at speech. He doesn’t understand why he feels the way he feels, either. Jon is really a bit of a prick most of the time, but he’s caught enough glimpses of the decent human being underneath all that to become enamored. And he’s still a decent human being, even if he’s currently a mothman.</p><p>Martin also still finds him hot. So what?</p><p>He needs a better way to phrase all that. An eloquent way, something that would make heartfelt music swell if they were in a movie. Only it’s not a movie. There’s just the hum of the aging station’s various systems, some of which are struggling, and... cheerful whistling? </p><p>Both Jon and Martin freeze.</p><p>It’s coming from the hall outside, and it’s moving closer. </p><p>“Hide!” Martin whispers.</p><p>They both scramble to their feet. The lockers are split-stacked, far too small for Jon too hide in even if it does look like his gangly limbs would be quite good at folding up. In any case, his wings are out in all their majesty and there’s no way they’re easily getting around those. Jon bumps into him in a panic. Martin grabs one of his arms to keep him from falling.</p><p>Tim walks in the locker room. He stops whistling.</p><p>Martin still has his hand on Jon, who awkwardly waves with two arms at once.</p><p>“Please don’t scream,” Martin pleads.</p><p>“Why would I scream?” Tim laughs, but there’s an hysterical edge to it. “I mean, I pop off to the showers in the middle of the night to find you and...” he gestures wildly at what he has every right to think is a monster.</p><p>“Jon,” Martin finishes for him. Jon gives him a look, but there’s really no sense trying to hide it.</p><p>Tim smacks his forehead. “Jon! Yes! Of course!” He gives Jon two thumbs up. “Love the new look, boss! The whole monochromatic monster thing is very ‘in’ this season.”</p><p>For all his joking, Tim’s voice is getting higher and more frantic. He’s very close to losing it right there in the locker room. Jon still bristles at the the ‘monochromatic monster’ crack.</p><p>“Tim.” Martin groans. “I’m not joking. This is Jon. Elias did this to him. He can also understand every word you‘re saying so please be a little considerate.”</p><p>Jon nods and huffs angrily.</p><p>“Oh.” Tim says, all pretense of humor fading. “Well, then.” He bites his lip and holds up a finger. “Can you just... hold on a second? We were gonna stagger our entrances but really what’s the point now?”</p><p>He ducks back out into the hall and returns a moment later with Sasha.</p><p>“Tim, what’s—<em>oh my god!”</em></p>
<hr/><p>Jon tenses as Martin puts his arm around him with Sasha’s arrival, careful to go under his wings, but he appreciates the gesture. He knows it’s as much to keep him from bolting as their audience grows as it is to reassure him, but it’s... nice.</p><p>Jon tunes everything out as Martin gives Tim and Sasha a very abbreviated account of what happened according to what he knows. Even if Jon could join in, there isn’t much to add. Elias was getting increasingly desperate, Jon’s blood just happened to react favorably to their highly classified substrate when he accidentally cut himself, thus Elias saw an opportunity and took it.</p><p>“Human experimentation,” Sasha gasps. “And with Jon? <em>Our Jon?</em> That’s low, even for Elias.</p><p>“Yet somehow I’m not surprised,” Tim mutters.</p><p>Now Jon’s whole team knows the truth. Lovely.</p><p>Sasha pounds her fist into her open palm, snapping Jon back into focus. “Guess this means we’ll have to move up our plans.”</p><p>Martin is just as surprised as Jon. “What plans?”</p><p>“Oh, right.” Tim laughs. “We weren’t sure if we could trust you two with this before, but, well...” The two look at each other and grin like they’re about to announce an engagement. They take a moment to quietly argue over who gets to say it, but Tim wins. He turns back to Jon and Martin, still grinning. </p><p>“We’ve been planning to blow up the genetics sector of the station for a while now.”</p><p>Martin is utterly aghast. So is Jon, but he can’t voice it. “You <em>what?!”</em></p><p>Sasha shrugs. “It’s the only way to get out of our contracts early.”</p><p>“By dying?!” </p><p>Jon warbles something to the same effect as Martin rakes his fingers through his hair, unable to deal with how casual the two are being about large scale arson—no, worse, terrorism!</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Tim scoffs. “We’re faking our deaths.”</p><p>“And you were planning on telling us when?!”</p><p>Martin looks like he desperately wants to throw something, but the only thing close at hand is more towels. Jon is just glad he and Martin are on the same outraged page here, because if Martin was all aboard the mayhem and destruction train he’s not sure he could handle it.</p><p>“Well, we were still discussing that,” Sasha says. </p><p>Tim nods. “But Elias turning Jon into mothman makes everything much easier.”</p><p>There’s a strange buzzing noise that’s been around ever since Tim made the announcement, easily overlooked during all the shouting. Jon glances back and realizes it’s his wings anxiously vibrating. He takes hold of them with his lower arms but can still feel them twitching.</p><p>“Look,” Martin says, trying to keep his voice level. “I don’t think Jon really needs the stress of... of...<em> all this</em> on top of everything else right now! He just got out of that cocoon, and now you want to blow up the station?!”</p><p>“Not the <em>entire</em> station,” Tim objects.</p><p>“Yeah.” Sasha nods. “It’s built so any given section can go without harming the rest. A seal’s created, and that’s it. R.I.P us.”</p><p>Martin rubs his temples. He looks like he’s getting a headache. Jon can sympathize.</p>
<hr/><p>This is the first time in a long time Martin’s seen Tim and Sasha passionate about a project. Figures it had to involve explosions and deception.</p><p>“There’s one small problem,” Martin says, speaking slowly and carefully so he doesn’t start screaming. “The cocoon is Elias’s pet project, and it hatched an hour ago. Sooner or later he’s going to want to check on it, and since cameras never worked on it we can’t just rewind the feed to show it back in one piece again. Plus the floor is absolutely covered in goo from when it opened and I am too fucking tired to deal with it right now, alright? I’m taking a stand. I won’t do it. I need sleep.”</p><p>Martin stands up as straight as he can, but his back is really starting to ache. He’s done way too much ever since Jon broke out of his cocoon. He tenses as Jon pats him on the back. It takes a moment for his sleep deprived brain to register and make sense of that. Is... is Jon <em>proud</em> of him? He looks over and, yes, he may not have a mouth, but Jon’s eyes are smiling. Martin can tell by the way they scrunch up.</p><p>Tim and Sasha, meanwhile, exchange a look. They nod.</p><p>“Okay,” Sasha says. “I’d be happy to whip something up to fool Elias.”</p><p>“And Peter,” Martin adds. “He’s here, too.”</p><p>“Oh, so we have <em>plenty</em> of time then,” Sasha says with renewed cheer. “Good.”</p><p>Tim grins. “But just so you know, I’m only doing this because I finally heard you say ‘fucking’ without whispering or blushing like you’re afraid a school teacher might beam up from Earth and hear you.”</p><p>“I do not!” Martin sputters. “And furthermore, that Star Trek stuff is <em>still</em> science fiction thank-you-very-much!” </p><p>Tim laughs. “I won’t even hold that delayed blush against you.”</p><p>Martin can feel the heat in his cheeks, and getting called on it only makes it worse. Jon puts a hand on his shoulder, and Martin’s afraid he might curl up and die right there in the locker room, especially when Sasha looks at them like they’re the cutest thing ever.</p><p>“We’ll take care of everything,” she says. “Just get Jon back to... well, I guess your quarters since I don’t see a bracelet on him.”</p><p>Jon squeezes Martin’s shoulder. Right. That would be the same hand that used to have his ID bracelet on it. Martin reaches up and pats it reassuringly.</p><p>“It’s okay,” he says, smiling at Jon for good measure. “I don’t mind.”</p><p>“Sash’s still got the cameras blinded from when we came in, so no one’s gonna see you on the way back.”</p><p>Tim gives them a thumbs up. Martin doesn’t bother commenting on their after hours activities. He and Jon are almost out the door when Tim calls out.</p><p>“Oh, and Jon?” </p><p>Jon pauses and makes an annoyed trill, his eyes narrowing. Martin can’t blame him for expecting another bad joke or something.</p><p>Tim grimaces. “Sorry about... well, everything—up to and including me being a total arse.”</p><p>Jon blinks, just as taken aback by his sincerity as Martin. He nods awkwardly, grabs Martin by the arm, and hurries out into the halls.</p><p>“That was sweet,” Martin whispers. “I’m glad they have our backs.”</p><p>Jon hums something that sounds like agreement. Guess they’re all in this together... which at some point also means blowing up the station’s genetics sector and faking their deaths.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Here’s some <a href="https://echointheether.tumblr.com/post/618034301069590528/drew-meteormemoirs-mothjon-from-their-absolutely">fanart</a> of soggy mothjon!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Like an Open Book</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Jon and Martin finally communicate.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Perspectives change much less frequently this chapter, for good reason.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Jon keeps expecting their luck to run out, for alarms to sound and station security to swarm them, but he and Martin encounter no one on the walk back to his quarters. He can only hope Sasha was right about the cameras still being out to cover her and Tim’s little shower peccadillo, but they’ll soon find out.</p><p>Martin raises his wrist to the pad by his door, then curses and bodily blocks the way. “No, wait! It’s not... I wasn’t expecting anyone over, so it’s a bit of a mess in there.”</p><p>He’s blushing, and it’s frankly rather adorable, but Jon is afraid the cameras could come back online at any moment—if they aren’t watching already. He grumbles and gently but firmly pushes Martin into the room using all four of his arms. The quiet hiss of the door sliding closed behind them is music to his no longer external ears.</p><p>The state of Martin’s quarters isn’t that bad at all. The room is certainly in better shape than his own, but it’s not as though he can tell him that. All Jon can do is wave Martin off as he makes hurried attempts to try and tidy while he’s standing there.</p><p>“Y-you don’t mind, then?” Martin asks, holding a bundle of dirty clothes and a odd few books. Jon is the same way, preferring to keep vintage physical copies instead of storing everything on a data pad. The sensation of turning the pages under his fingers just feels better.</p><p>Jon shakes his head.</p><p>Martin sighs with relief and throws everything into the corner. His bed is made, at least, and Martin awkwardly sits down on the edge of it. There’s also the chair at his desk, giving Jon a choice.</p><p>He starts for the chair—to be polite, give Martin some space, of course—but his wings immediately present a problem. Glittering scales drift to the floor as one clips the chair back. The sensation is a lot like banging his elbow on the edge of something.</p><p>They’re still tender, then. Good to know. Jon manages not to cry out this time, but the hiss of pain is perhaps even worse than the scalded cat noise he made back in the showers. Martin is up on his feet in a flash, hands hovering uncertainly over Jon as he tries to assess the damage.</p><p>Jon waves him off once more, his eyes watering. He stalks to the bed and throws himself face first onto it. At least that way he can’t damage his wings.</p><p>“Good idea,” Martin says. Jon’s antennae twitch as he moves closer. “It doesn’t look like anything’s torn, just a few shed scales. I need to sweep up later, anyway.”</p><p>Jon grunts into the pillow. Martin’s smell is all over it—and what a blessing it is he hasn’t lost that sense along with his nose, but he doubts the new facets of his biology perfectly mimic any known species of moth on Earth.</p><p>He feels the bed shift as Martin sits down again.</p><p>“I know this must be hard,” Martin says. “Well... I can’t <em>know</em>, of course, but I can imagine. Er, sorry. It’s hard to know what to say—especially when you can’t talk back. I know a bit of BSL, if it helps.”</p><p>The pillow muffles what would otherwise be a very loud, regret-filled groan. Jon only knows three phrases in BSL, none of which Elias taught him, and he doesn’t feel that any would be particularly helpful at the moment.</p><p>“I take it that means you don’t.”</p><p>Jon turns his head while Martin shifts position so they can face each other.</p><p>“I could teach you a bit now, if you want.”</p><p>Jon grumbles and shakes his head, wrapping his top set of arms around the pillow as a clear sign of refusal to sit up.</p><p>Martin is unflappable as always. “Right, maybe later—like when you’re used to maneuvering with those wings and... er, everything else.”</p><p>That was what Jon was thinking, anyway. He huffs a terse laugh. It figures Martin is used to anticipating and working around his moods, nightmare boss that he is—or was.</p><p>If he could just apologize for all that.</p><p>Jon’s antennae, formerly lazily tasting the air, jerk upwards. He almost moves to pin them back, but they’re even more sensitive than his wings.</p><p>“Oh!” Martin leans in a little closer. “Do you want to try that... mind-meld thing again?”</p><p>God, Jon wishes he wouldn’t use terms like that for it. Horrible sci-fi inspired terminology aside, the last time was so intense Jon hesitates to reply. The antennae, however, make the choice for him—though it’s more likely an expression of his desperation to connect than them having minds of their own, which would just be absurd. The antennae drift forward, and Martin, not without some trepidation, leans in to touch his forehead to them.</p><p>It’s slightly less of a shock than before, given they know what to expect, but as communication goes it only helps so much.</p><p>There are no words, only feelings and flashes of memory strung together like a poorly edited silent movie. Jon’s regret strongly colors images of all but running Martin out of his office, of occasionally watching him from afar but being sure his behavior during the project’s worst period had ruined his relationship with everyone on the team, Martin included. </p><p>The mutual longing bridges him to Martin’s memories, and he still just doesn’t understand how he put up with him, let alone developed <em>feelings</em>. The confusion radiates through the bond like someone discordantly strumming a guitar string. It’s giving Jon a headache—or maybe simply maintaining the mental link is doing it. Jon breaks away and closes his eyes. In trying to put a hand to his forehead, he accidentally slaps himself in the face with one of the new ones. Jon collapses back onto the pillow in defeat, eyes still closed.</p><p>“Well, that was... something.” Martin’s voice is strained. The mattress shifts again as he stands. “I think I’ll make some tea. It might help us both.”</p><p>Jon just lays there, his headache getting worse with each passing moment. At some point Martin returns with tea.</p><p>“I know this is a lot more sugar than you usually take, but, uh... considering... yeah... “</p><p>More like nectar. Yes, that makes sense.</p><p>Jon changes position and finds if he lays at the very edge of the bed, his wings draped over the side like an unwieldy cape, it’s... tolerable. Awkward, but tolerable. He braces himself with one set of arms and takes the mug with the other. Finally, the extraneous limbs are coming in—well, handy.</p><p>He can’t help but chuckle deep in his throat at the unvoiced pun as he stares down at the tea, already cool enough to drink. Jon wonders if he dozed off. Martin yawns into his own mug as he sips, fighting to stay awake. Jon gestures to the unclaimed pillow, then realizes he’s been on Martin’s side of the bed all along.</p><p>“I’m fine,” Martin says, apparently not seeing a problem with that. “It’s not like I have to be up for work now. I guess Sasha and Tim will take it from here.”</p><p>He yawns hugely, nearly spilling his tea as his hands slip.</p><p>Jon points more emphatically at the pillow. If Martin doesn’t lay down soon he’s liable to keel over with mug in hand.</p><p>“Ugh, fine,” Martin sighs. He blearily knocks a few things off the bedside table to make room for the mug and kicks off his shoes before stretching out.</p><p>Part of Jon wants to insist Martin change out of those jeans and put on some proper sleepwear, but he of course can’t say anything to that effect. Ye gods, even if he could that would mean outright asking Martin to take his pants off. Jon’s glad all the fur on his face hides any blushing.</p><p>Martin is already out by the time his head hits the pillow, but still Jon tries his best to muffle the awful slurping noises he makes as he bolts the rest of his tea and puts the empty mug aside. </p><p>Jon lays down with Martin in his sights. His wing accommodation solution leaves a person sized gap between them—still well within Jon’s reach, but he won’t allow himself to presume to touch Martin like this.</p><p>Jon drifts off while watching Martin sleep. He looks so peaceful. He envies whatever dreams he must be having.</p><hr/><p>Martin is back in the quiet little park near his childhood home, the one he’d always sneak off to whenever his mother was having one of her bad spells—which happened more and more often as the years passed, until he finally had no choice but to relocate her to a care home. He’d bring a book and a snack, maybe some corn or rice for the ducks, and spend no longer than ninety minutes away. Any longer and his mother would only be angrier when he returned. That took quite a bit of nasty trial and error to figure out. </p><p>Martin hasn’t been back to this park since she died, so it feels strange to suddenly be sitting here on his favorite bench by the pond, a book open in his lap.</p><p>He looks down and finds none of the words make any sense.</p><p>A shadow falls over him, blocking out the nonsense squiggled all over the page in a vague semblance of print. “Reading generally doesn’t work well in dreams. The logic center of the brain shuts down while sleeping, you see.”</p><p>Martin looks up and over his shoulder. Jon is standing behind the bench—human again.</p><p>“<em>Aaaaand </em>now I know I’m dreaming.”</p><p>Jon chuckles. “Yes.” </p><p>Martin stares at Jon as he crosses around to sit a respectable distance from him on the bench. Close, but never close enough. It’s getting just a little frustrating, but Martin doesn’t want to push if Jon isn’t comfortable getting closer.</p><p>Once he’s settled, so close and yet so far, Jon carries on like this is just another one of his ramblings and absolutely nothing is out of the ordinary.</p><p>“Now, when you’re <em>lucid</em> dreaming theoretically anything possible, including reading.”</p><p>“And sitting here with you.”</p><p>Jon looks down at himself. He holds up his hands, of which he only has two—both normal human hands with five slender, calloused fingers. Jon wiggles them and frowns. “I’m fairly certain I’m dreaming as well, Martin.”</p><p>“But we... you... I...” Martin points back and forth, unable to get the words out.</p><p>“It might be because of earlier. Or it might be because my...” Jon grimaces, unable to say ‘antennae’. “Er, because I unwittingly connected to you again in my sleep. Sorry.”</p><p>Jon blushes, actually blushes, and Martin realizes there’s no telling if he’s done that since he changed—not in real life, anyway—thanks to all the fur. He thinks he looks adorable both ways, but he’s getting distracted.</p><p>“No! No! It’s fine!” Martin waves his hands frantically. “I mean... at least this way we can talk.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>“So...”</p><p>They look around at the idyllic dreamscape, neither knowing where to begin.</p><p>The book sitting in Martin’s lap is becoming an awkward weight, and when he looks down he finds the words printed on it read ‘tell him’ over and over again. Martin decides to make it a apple pie. The change is instantaneous. Jon laughs. Martin blushes, and not just because there’s little heart shaped flourishes on the crust—his subconscious is still undermining him, damn it. He makes the pie turn into a small flock of white doves that immediately fly off... just like doves released at a wedding. Fuck.</p><p>Jon applauds the impromptu lucid dreaming display. “You’re already quite good at this,” he says, genuinely impressed. “I’d say you’re a natural.” </p><p>“Maybe. I guess. But we should still talk.” Martin forces himself to look at Jon. “About, well, everything...”</p><p>“Ah. Yes.” Jon looks stricken. “Martin, I... am so, so sorry.”</p><p>“Wait, what?” Martin is taken aback by how absolutely despondent Jon sounds all of the sudden, like he’s about to confess to something truly awful. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“I’ve been terrible to you.”</p><p>“Not that terrible!”</p><p>“Yes!” Jon digs his fingers into his knees, staring at the utterly still pond. “I... I’m not good with people. Working with them or—well, at all. It’s so easy to get lost in my work, and I perhaps—no, I <em>definitely</em> don’t react well to interruptions or setbacks. I can’t very well say I’m bad with words, because I’ve published several papers, it’s just...” He sighs. “People. Relationships. That’s a science I just can’t get my head around.”</p><p>Jon releases his death grip on his trousers—the same slacks and old man sweater vest and tie combo he usually wore under his lab coat—and finally looks at Martin again.</p><p>“And it’s not that I’m not interested in you—I am. It’s just...” He runs his hand through his hair, knocking even more loose from the tie that’s barely keeping it held back. “I’m not sure how well it would work.”</p><p>“I think I understand.” Martin nods slowly. “I mean, you’re my boss, and a relationship probably wouldn’t be appropriate, anyway—right?”</p><p>“What? No! I mean... Er, yes, while that is certainly a consideration—or was—it’s... Martin, we could have at least discussed things like adults!”</p><p>“We are discussing things!”</p><p>“But it’s too late!” Jon stands up—just to put more distance between them—and it breaks Martin’s heart a little more. Jon takes his glasses off, briefly pinching the bridge of his nose before turning back to Martin. “I’m not even human anymore! I’m—oh, <em>bugger</em>...”</p><p>The glasses slip from Jon’s hand and land in the grass at his feet. Outright stating he’s not human is apparently all it takes to shatter Jon’s ability to appear as such in the dream.</p><p>It is not a quick or easy transition, like deciding the book formerly in Martin’s lap was instead an apple pie. Jon feels he deserves to suffer, Martin got that impression when they were connected before, so their shared dream quickly becomes a nightmare. </p><p>Jon staggers and steps on his glasses, heedless of the crunching under his shoe as he puts a trembling hand to his mouth.</p><p>Martin stands, calling Jon’s name as the previously blue sky goes leaden grey. A cold wind gusts all around them. Jon’s hair tie gives up and is carried away along with several leaves, lost to the dream world.</p><p>Martin tries to get closer, unable to see what’s happening as Jon’s gray streaked hair whips around his face. He reaches out. Jon outright slaps his hand away—but in doing so he turns, and Martin sees his mouth is gone. Instead of a proboscis, there’s a stretched patch of flesh where his lips should be, robbing him of speech just the same. Jon makes a muffled, anguished noise and starts to turn away again.</p><p>“No, don’t!” Martin grabs Jon by the arm and pulls him back. He can’t do this anymore. Trying to give him space is one thing, but this is too much.</p><p>Martin looks Jon dead in the eyes. The wind stings Martin’s face, but that’s not the reason his eyes are tearing up. “Look, Jon, if you don’t want me, that’s fine. Just... just be clear with me! Write ‘fuck off, Martin’ in big letters, whatever, but all I’m hearing is you making excuses and punishing yourself for nothing!”</p><p>Jon stares at him, his wide eyes slowly turning black, but Martin refuses to look away. </p><p>“I don’t care what you look like! I don’t care about your moods! I don’t even care about sex, damn it! I just want to be with you, alright?! I love you! And yes, you deserve to be loved, Jon! You’re not a bad person and you’re certainly not a monster, <em>believe me!”</em></p><p>Martin is crying outright now. So is Jon, who is looking less human by the second. Martin hears a wet cracking sound, sees Jon wince, but he doesn’t dare break eye contact. “And this confession is <em>not</em> a guilt trip, got it? If you don’t love me back, I’ll deal with it, but at least let me be your friend! Let me help you! Let me—”</p><p>Jon cuts him off by pulling him into a fierce hug. Martin can feel four arms tightly encircling him. He hugs Jon back, melting into the embrace. The wind stills, the blue skies return. Jon is a mothman again, but it hardly matters. They’re together.</p><p>“So...” Martin glances around. “How do we wake up?”</p><hr/><p>Jon jolts awake. If not for the fact he’s tightly clinging to Martin with all his arms, he’d fall off the bed entirely. His antennae curl back behind his head as he looks around, the sense of disorientation fading as he remembers they’re in Martin’s quarters on the station, not a park on Earth from Martin’s memories.</p><p>“Hey,” Martin says sleepily, drawing Jon’s attention back to him. He smiles.</p><p>Jon’s heart hammers in his chest. He can’t just leave things like they ended in the dream. He can’t leave Martin wondering how he really feels.</p><p>Martin looks at him curiously, still a bit sleepy, as Jon pulls one arm free, and once again Jon is immensely glad Martin can’t see him blushing.</p><p>He never could remember which way to gesture with finger spelling, often mixing up letters entirely, so he settles for just using the sign for ‘love’ and pointing.</p><p>Martin’s laugh of delight and relief is the sweetest thing Jon’s ever heard.</p><p>“I love you, too.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>This happened NOW because I looked at my other, much longer ongoing fic and was like “ugh, circumstances* just keep tearing them apart!” Thus I went to the other extreme here. Pity that other, jmless AU.</p><p>*(it’s me, I’m circumstances)</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Prometheus Gambit</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Basira and Daisy join Team Arson.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Jon is surrounded by sci-fi nerds trying to name things after movies. Hasn’t he suffered enough?</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It’s a good thing Martin wakes before Jon, because he feels very guilty about the way he startles when he blearily wakes to find himself cuddling a sleeping mothman. His brain catches up a second later—and, really, Jon looks quite peaceful while asleep—but there’s no helping that primal ‘oh, god, monster’ instinct that makes him tense up and hold his breath for a second at the blank, furry face just inches from his own.</p><p>Martin doesn’t scream, he just exhales a shaky sigh and watches Jon as he sleeps. He tied his antenna back along with his hair to make sure there would be no more dream sharing incidents, though it seemed immensely uncomfortable for him even using a soft scrunchy to do it. Jon frowns as he sleeps, just like he did whenever he dozed off over his desk in the lab, and some of his hair has come loose to fall around his face. Martin can’t resist pushing it back. He smiles when Jon blinks awake at the gesture.</p><p>“Hey,” Martin whispers.</p><p>Up close he can see how Jon’s big black eyes dart all around by the way the light dances in them. Jon blinks, finally focusing on him as his memories slot back into place. He never stops clinging to Martin with all four of his arms. It’s nice. He’s warm and fluffy, and his claws only dig into Martin’s skin a little through his clothes.</p><p>Jon nuzzles against him, and Martin can feel the frustration radiating through him over the lack of the mouth. Martin kisses his forehead and immediately worries if that’s too much like rubbing it in, but Jon relaxes at the gesture and makes a contented little trill that sounds almost like a purr.</p><p>“Cute,” Martin chuckles.</p><p>Jon harrumphs. He reaches up with one hand and pulls the scrunchy loose so his antennae can be free. They curl above his head and wave gently in the recycled air of Martin’s quarters.</p><p>There’s an unobtrusive chime over the intercom. Martin checks the display on his bracelet. Tim is calling. Martin lets it ring for a bit before answering. Can’t they let them lie in a bit longer?</p><p>“Ugh, what?”</p><p>“Hi you two,” Tim is entirely too cheerful. “We’re ready to move on to the next stage of the plan when you are.”</p><p>Martin grumbles. “What time is it?”</p><p>“2:30pm Station Time.”</p><p>“What?!”</p><p>“Yeah, Sasha wanted to wake you up earlier, but I figured you deserved your rest or... whatever. Anyway, we’re waiting in the cafeteria! See you soon!”</p><hr/><p>A hasty text update from Sasha assures them the cameras are still on a blank loop of the corridors, but Jon doesn’t feel safe setting foot outside until he’s draped a spare blanket over himself like a cloak.</p><p>Martin indulges him, finding a large and soft knit blanket that isn’t too cumbersome, and together they head out into the halls. Jon keeps the blanket pulled tight with his new arms while clinging to Martin with his original right arm. The left he leaves free just in case.</p><p>There’s still no one in the corridors even in the middle of the afternoon. Part of that is because their small science division has a bad reputation, but mainly it’s because each section is self-contained. There’s little reason for workers from other divisions to drop by unless they really need something. The station is laid out like a wheel, with an inner ring for easily traversing between sectors without having to pass through each one. Somewhere at the center of it all is Elias, and sooner or later he’s going to come down and check on them.</p><p>If he doesn’t send Security to do it for him.</p><p>Jon hisses in surprise when they step into the cafeteria only to find officers Tonner and Hussain sitting at a table with Sasha and Tim. They came by enough in the past—usually in response to minor explosions—to be on a first name basis with the team, but their presence now could only mean one thing.</p><p>They’re screwed.</p><p>Martin throws himself in front of Jon before he can think of running.</p><p>“If you want him you’ll have to go through me first!”</p><p>Everyone stares.</p><p>Daisy and Basira slowly look to Tim and Sasha.</p><p>“Did you not tell them?” Basira asks.</p><p>Tim and Sasha exchange looks.</p><p>“I thought you told them,” the say in unison.</p><p>Daisy groans. “Look, we’re on your side. Now quit with the ‘you’ll never take me alive’ crap and sit down. We need to move quickly.”</p><p>Martin glances back at Jon. This is exceedingly awkward. He still doesn’t quite trust them, either.</p><p>Jon points at his antennae. It’s the quickest way to figure out if they’re lying or not.</p><p>Martin nods and turns back to the officers. “You’ve got to do something for us, first...”</p><p>Basira is eyeing them both warily. “What is it?”</p><p>“It’s, er... sort of a lie detector?”</p><p>“Whatever,” Daisy sighs. “I’ll do it. Just hurry it up.”</p><p>Martin squeezes Jon’s hand and together they step forward.</p><hr/><p>Seeing the mind meld from the outside is no less weird for Martin. For a moment he’s afraid he’s going to have to stop Basira from tackling Jon, but just when the tension crescendoes he breaks the connection. Martin hopes that means he remains at least a little aware of what’s going on around him while he’s doing it.</p><p>Daisy breathes heavily, staring at Jon with something between horror and fascination as his antennae pull away from her forehead.</p><p>“You better not tell anyone,” she hisses under her breath.</p><p>Jon shakes his head frantically and makes a childish but earnest gesture of crossing his heart. Daisy laughs a little.</p><p>Basira is scowling at Jon and it’s making Martin nervous.</p><p>“Anyway!” Tim claps his hands together. “I’m guessing Jon got whatever he needed out of the Vulcan mind meld, so we can trust them, right?”</p><p>Jon huffs in consternation at Tim’s choice of words and nods.</p><p>“I already told you we’re all in,” Basira says. “Elias has been using me as room service since Peter got here and it’s the last straw.”</p><p>“But that’s also how we’re gonna get him,” Daisy says, grinning with savage delight. Suddenly she’s much more frightening to look at than Basira—something about all the teeth she shows when she smiles. Martin’s just glad she seems to have warmed to Jon.</p><p>“Um...” Martin looks to Tim and Sasha for help. “So we’re not just blowing our sector and escaping?”</p><p>“Oh, we are,” Sasha says. “But while I was cleaning up Jon’s cocoon Daisy showed up and, well, one thing led to another and I was able to synthesize what he used to mutate Jon, so—”</p><p>“We’re giving him a taste of his own medicine,” Daisy cuts in, looking entirely too pleased with herself. “I call it... the Prometheus Gambit.”</p><p>The announcement is met with stunned silence.</p><p>Tim raises his hand. He doesn’t wait to be called on before speaking. “Hi. Yes. First of all, what the fuck? Second, are you <em>high?”</em></p><p>Daisy scowls. Clearly this wasn’t the response she expected. “Covert operations need code names, alright?!”</p><p>“It sounds like a bad paperback novel,” Sasha says.</p><p>“It’s like the movie!” Daisy looks to Basira for backup. Basira shakes her head, so Daisy plunges on alone. “You know, <em>Prometheus?”</em></p><p>Martin coughs. “That old <em>Alien</em> series film?”</p><p>“Yes, exactly!” Daisy brightens up. “We spiked Elias’s booze! So he’s gonna and up just like—if not worse—than Jon! Er, sorry Jon. No offense.”</p><p>Jon puts his head in one set of hands while another set pull the blanket completely over him. It helps to muffle the outraged noises he makes.</p><p>“Now look what you’ve done,” Sasha sighs.</p><p>“I don’t think it’s the ‘just like Jon’ bit he objects to,” Martin says. “It’s probably more the whole plan built on a movie reference. And the name, too.”</p><p>He’s sure Jon hasn’t seen the movie in question. He loathes science fiction, a fact they were frequently reminded of during past discussions. It wasn’t that Jon was a kill joy per se, it’s just he was... a realist, put it that way. He had his own tastes, and Martin quite enjoyed hearing him go on about them back before everything changed, but Tim could never let it go.</p><p>“I don’t have to be psychic to know what that all translates to,” Basira says, sounding sympathetic. Jon lifts the blanket just enough to peer at her curiously.</p><p>“Me either,” Tim says, lapsing into a very good Jon impression, with lots of exasperated hand gestures. “For heaven’s sake people, we are <em>on</em> a space station with artificial gravity! The future is <em>now!</em> There is <em>no reason</em> to be using science fiction terms to describe these things!”</p><p>Sasha applauds. Martin folds his arms to keep from joining in and does his best to look miffed instead of amused. He has to bite his lip to manage it. He pats Jon when the moment passes, who huddles under the blanket like an angry cat at being so thoroughly called out.</p><hr/><p>Jon is surrounded by vintage sci-fi addicts. It’s awful.</p><p>“The first flower to bloom in space was because of an old episode of Star Trek,” Daisy chimes in. “Face it, Jon. Nerds are gonna turn science fiction into reality at every opportunity, just because they can, so we’re doing this. It’s the Prometheus Gambit. My idea. My name.”</p><p>Once again, everyone stares.</p><p>“And everyone stop acting shocked that I know these things, god.” </p><p>Tim points. “Nerrrrrrrd.”</p><p>Sasha scoffs and mutters, “Prometheus wasn’t even that good.”</p><p>Daisy glowers at her. “Don’t make me throw you out the airlock.”</p><p>“Okay, but seriously...” Tim presses his hands together and gives Daisy his best puppy dog look. “Star Trek movies. Rank them? Please? Purely in the interest of science?”</p><p>Jon feels like he’s losing his mind.</p><p>Daisy arches a scarred eyebrow. “Are we including—”</p><p>“No!” Basira yells. “I swear, I will throw you <em>both</em> out the airlock! Now, <em>focus!</em> Everyone!”</p><p>Jon pulls the blanket off and sits up. Basira isn’t so bad after all, he decides. He really can’t blame her for being wary of him in his new form. </p><p>Everyone settles down and gives Basira their full attention as she stands at the head of the cafeteria table.</p><p>“As we established, Sasha reversed engineered whatever Elias used on Jon and we injected it through the cork of his next bottle. It’s a Petite Sarah.”</p><p>“Sirah,” Tim interjects.</p><p>“Whatever, I don’t drink,” Basira says. “The point is it’s so dark that the substance won’t be noticeable when added. No idea how it’ll effect the taste, but this is a different expensive old bottle than before, and Elias seems like the type to bullshit knowing what he’s talking about when it comes to wine, so it could taste like ass and it probably wouldn’t matter.”</p><p>“Let’s hope you’re right,” Sasha says.</p><p>“He’s already drunk,” Tim says. “So I don’t think it’s gonna matter much. What about Peter?”</p><p>Basira shakes her head. “Hates wine. It’s all whiskey and cigars with him.”</p><p>Tim taps his chin. “Not too late to throw exploding cigars into the mix, is it?”</p><p>Daisy sighs. “Let’s just hope he’ll be too distracted dealing with Elias to do anything else. The most important thing is taking Elias out so we can get away.”</p><p>“Besides that, Peter is only a visitor here,” Sasha adds. “He doesn’t know how any of these old systems work. Once Elias starts choking or whatever, we’re set.”</p><p>“Unless he planned for this,” Martin says grimly.</p><p>Everyone stares at him.</p><p>“What? I’m just saying!”</p><p>“Trust me, Martin.” Tim puts a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “There is no way in hell Elias expects us to be savvy enough to reverse engineer his own compound and use it against him in less than a day.”</p><p>“Great,” Martin sighs. “It all hinges on him thinking we’re incompetent. How did you manage it, anyway? The reverse engineering, I mean.”</p><p>Sasha and Tim exchange a look. Sasha grins. “We have our ways.”</p><p>“And seeing what he did to Jon was just the added kick in the pants we needed to up our game beyond just a few explosives.”</p><p>“Which we’ve had ready for a while now.”</p><p>Jon and Martin exchange a look. That would mean they’ve been planning to blow up part of the station since long before Jon transformed.</p><p>“That’s...” Martin grimaces. “Terrifying, actually.”</p><p>Jon nods.</p><p>“Try not to think to hard about it,” Tim says. “Instead, think about how we’ll be heading back to Earth soon!”</p><p>“With flaming pieces of the station trailing behind us,” Martin groans. Jon wraps his arms around him. He doesn’t particularly relish the idea, either. The normal ride up to the station was bad enough on its own, to say nothing of this creative new way off.</p><p>“Only the science division,” Sasha interjects. “Once the safety protocol kicks in, the rest of the station will be fine. We’re not monsters.”</p><p>“Elias is,” Daisy mutters. “And don’t give me that look Jon. You don’t count, believe me. That bastard up in his fancy director’s quarters is the only real monster on this station.”</p><p>“Yes, well.” Basira folds her arms. “That’s going be plain for all to see once he breaks into that bottle.”</p><p>The look was more because Jon didn’t relish the idea of putting anyone through the same thing he went through—even Elias—but the wheels were already in motion.</p><p>Soon he wouldn’t be the only mothman around. </p><p>“It’s poetic,” Martin says, looking around the room. “Don’t you think?”</p><p>Tim snorts. “I think it’s bloody hilarious is what.”</p><p>“If it doesn’t just poison him,” Sasha interjects. “I’m still not sure how the wine will interact with that stuff.”</p><p>“Either way, we win,” Daisy says. “So let’s kick off the final phase of this escape plan already!”</p><p>Tim shakes his head. “It’s so weird having space cops on our side for this now.”</p><p>“We’re not police,” Basira retorts.</p><p>“Whatever,” Tim says. “It’s high crime time. Let’s do this!”</p><p>Sasha cheers while Daisy pumps her fist.</p><p>Jon feels like he’s dreaming. Or maybe it’s another nightmare. Martin reaches for one of his hands again and squeezes. It helps to ground him, remind him he’s not alone.</p><p>Jon wonders if Elias drank the wine yet.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Moth!Elias and Peter is a story for another day. Like next chapter.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Honeymoon’s Over</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A brief interlude with Peter and Elias.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Meanwhile...</p><p>(cw: very brief mention of vomiting)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Elias is drunk. Elias is very, very drunk. Elias is so drunk that going another round with Peter isn’t going to happen, so he might as well keep drinking. He feels good, feels victorious, and he holds up his new wedding band to admire it before drinking straight from the wine bottle.</p><p>“Oh for god’s sake,” Peter groans.</p><p>His darling husband is pacing himself, sipping whiskey on the rocks from a proper glass because Peter hasn’t spent the past few months desperately trying to produce results to justify his entire operation’s existence. Peter doesn’t even really need money, or this station, or perhaps even Elias.</p><p>“There’s no clean glasses,” Elias says in his defense, careful to enunciate so he doesn’t slur his words. “It would only ruin the flavor.”</p><p>And yet he can’t really taste it. He takes another drink. Bitter. That’s all he gets. Subtle notes of nothing. One more drink, just to be sure. Odd. He can’t ask Peter’s opinion because his palate is as refined as a piece of old shoe leather. All that money and he drinks the most common sort of whiskey. Such a waste.</p><p>“Why a moth?”</p><p>Elias startles at the question. Peter isn’t looking at him, he’s looking at the ice melting in his glass.</p><p>“Didn’t you ask me that before?”</p><p>“Yes,” Peter says, still idly twirling the glass in his hand. “But you told me to shut up and kiss you. That was several hours and a virtual marriage ceremony ago.”</p><p>They’re sitting across from each other in the parlour now, wearing nothing but robes and pretending to be civilized married men. Neither plays the role well. It inevitably leads to quarreling when they have to say anything more complicated to each other than ‘harder, faster, lower, yes, right there,’ and so forth.</p><p>Elias takes a large pull off the bottle. “I wanted a relatively harmless proof of concept, but I’m afraid the... material... weaponizes whatever it’s given to work with, in a sense.”</p><p>“So you made a killer mothman.” The ice in the class clinks together as Peter sets it down. “Fantastic.”</p><p>“Don’t be glib,” Elias retorts. “We’re still well within the window for annulment.” He takes another drink while Peter refills his whiskey glass. “Besides, that’s why I used Jon. His temperament is perfect.”</p><p>Peter looks up from tonging fresh ice into his glass. “Why not—what’s his name, Blackwood? He seemed docile enough.”</p><p>Elias waves the idea away. “Deep seated anger issues. Honestly, don’t you read any of my files?”</p><p>“I just sign on the dotted line.”</p><p>Elias laughs into the bottle. He’s a little surprised to find it’s already echoing a bit. “So good to know you trust me, dearest.”</p><p>“I married you, didn’t I?”</p><p>“Indeed.” Elias stands, intending to sashay over to Peter, but he isn’t quite as skillful at hiding his inebriation in movement as he is in words. He sways unsteadily. “How many times has it been now?”</p><p>“I haven’t been keeping count.” Peter stands hastily. “Here, I’ll come to you.”</p><p>“Again?” Elias laughs. His head is spinning. Standing up was a mistake. The bottle slips from his fingers and shatters. What little liquid remains is very dark and viscous, even for a Petite Sirah. </p><p>He blinks. That can’t be right.</p><p>“Don’t move,” Peter says, holding his hands out like there’s an ocean between them. “You’ll cut yourself.”</p><p>Elias licks his lips. The bitter taste lingers on his tongue. It can’t be, not when he delivered the catalyst to Jon via injection.</p><p>“No,” he says softly, barely registering when Peter scoops him up and carries him away from the broken glass. </p><p>“Yes, yes,” Peter says, misunderstanding completely as he puts Elias down. “Better you wound your pride than your tender feet.”</p><p>“No!” Elias yells. “Not that! We have to—”</p><p>He’s interrupted by a muffled explosion that shakes the room and makes the lights flicker.</p><p>“Damn it all.” Peter stares at the floor as another tremor hits. “I told you this station was a death trap.”</p><p>Elias opens his mouth to argue that it’s not just the station, but throws up a thick black liquid instead—just like Jon did in the first stage of his transformation.</p>
<hr/><p>An alarm sounds. It’s joined by a calm feminine voice instructing all station personal to remain calm. </p><p>Peter curses. These old floating junk heaps are absurd in every way imaginable, but Elias just had to be independent at all costs.</p><p>Well, it’s certainly costing him now, by the look of it.</p><p>There isn’t enough liquor in the world to help Peter deal with what he’s seeing. The glistening black goo Elias threw up isn’t wine, that’s all he knows. </p><p>There wasn’t much to begin with, but it’s spreading at a rapid pace. It started at Elias’s feet, encasing them in seconds before crawling up his legs.</p><p>Peter drops down on his knees, reaching out to try and pry at off. He’s not sure what he’s doing, but he has to do something. It’s hard to think with the damn alarm and the automated voice saying stay calm.</p><p>“Don’t touch it!” Elias yells.</p><p>Peter jerks his hand away.</p><p>“It’s useless,” Elias adds, sounding defeated. The mass is already up to his waist. Elias’s black silk robe is caught up in it. Peter watches in morbid fascination as the fabric melts down Elias’s shoulders and joins with the ooze, used as fuel and material for whatever is happening.</p><p>“What the hell is this?” Peter asks.</p><p>“My creation,” Elias says bitterly. “Apparently they synthesized an ingestible formula.”</p><p>The alarm stops abruptly. That same infuriatingly calm voice informs all station personnel the damage is contained. Peter only used the most basic automated messaging system on his freighter. If the Tundra was going down, it wouldn’t be with some automated bint chirping everything was fine.</p><p>“This is a distraction,” Elias says through gritted teeth, trying not to panic as the ichor creeps closer to his neck.</p><p>“It’s bloody well working.”</p><p>“The specimen,” Elias says, growing frantic. “The explosion will have destroyed—ah, wait—” he utters a hysterical laugh as a black tendril reaches his chin. “I count as one now, don’t I?”</p><p>“Elias.” Peter moves as close as he dares. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”</p><p>Elias starts to hyperventilate as the ichor creeps up the back of his head. His eyes land on Peter and it’s as if he’d forgotten they were in the same room until that moment.</p><p>“Don’t leave me.”</p><p>It’s the last thing he manages to utter before the ichor covers his mouth. His eyes are huge, full of terror, and then those too are lost in the opaque cocoon. </p><p>Elias is completely encased in pulsing black ooze, and Peter has no idea what to do with the mess he and his team have made of everything.</p><p>If the rest of his team are even still alive.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next chapter is back to the boys, but we’ll check in with Peter and Elias now and again from here on out.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Down to Earth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Time to go home.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>To think I originally meant to end the story here, now it’s somewhere in the middle.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It all happens so fast. Both Tim and Sasha and Daisy and Basira not only function like two halves of the same whole, they all seem to know exactly what they’re doing. It leaves feeling Martin feeling quite useless.</p><p>“Shouldn’t I be doing something?” he asks, more than once, and every time they tell him to just stay close to Jon and keep a lookout. Sure. Easy. Pointless. Once they’re crowded in on the emergency escape shuttle, that’s it. He and Jon are pretty much cargo.</p><p>“When do the—”</p><p>The first charges go off before Martin can even finish asking. The entire shuttle shakes. Basira is at the controls. The shuttle is ready to launch, but she just sits there. Another explosion goes off, closer this time. Jon, squeezes Martin’s arm.</p><p>“We have to go!” Martin cries.</p><p>Daisy looks to Tim in annoyance. Sasha is engrossed in her computer screen. “Didn’t you explain this part to them?” </p><p>“Don’t worry,” Tim says. “It’s all part of the plan.”</p><p>“How can I not worry when it feels like we’re—”</p><p>The final explosion is so close Martin is sure they’re done for, so it’s only natural he scream and clutch Jon. The ship lurches forward as fire erupts around the windows. Debris of all sizes flies all around them even as they break clear of the station.</p><p>Martin understands it now. It’s masking their escape while Sasha hacks the system to make sure there’s no record of the shuttle surviving. He still clings tightly to Jon, who holds him so closely with all four arms that it hurts. He’ll calm down when he’s absolutely certain they’re not going to get taken out by a rogue chunk of station debris. In the meantime he looks to Jon and tries to put on a brave front. </p><p>He smiles. “You okay?”</p>
<hr/><p>Jon wants very badly to scream. No, he is most certainly not okay, but all he can do to convey that is tremble and make a high pitched chittering that’s a poor substitute for hurling invectives about recklessness.</p><p>“Oh, come on,” Tim retorts, because his assistants know him too damn well. “The plan worked perfectly, mothboss.”</p><p>Jon glares at him.</p><p>“Besides that,” Sasha adds, disengaging her screen. “You set the lab on fire more than anyone, so don’t try and lecture us.”</p><p>Jon hisses. </p><p>“Those were controlled conditions!” Martin says for him. “Mostly. There was that time the fire suppression system failed.”</p><p>Tim laughs. “Man, was botany pissed.”</p><p>Sasha frowns. “I hope we didn’t take out a portion of their sector with all this.”</p><p>“Why the hell weren’t you all the same division?” Daisy chimes in. “It’s all science, innit?”</p><p>Everyone on the science team exchanges looks.</p><p>“Elias doesn’t play nice with others,” Martin says at last.</p><p>Daisy snorts derisively as she side eyes Jon. “Obviously. Just look what he did to mothman over there.”</p><p>That’s it. He can’t take it anymore.</p><p>The shuttle is much too small to put any real distance between himself and the others, so all Jon can do is pull free of Martin and retreat to the back corner. He feels like a petulant child putting his back to them all, but he’s sick and tired of the jokes and the looks the others give him.</p>
<hr/><p>“Damn it, Daisy!” </p><p>Martin stops and turns back mid-step as he makes to follow Jon. “Actually, no, all of you have been cruel, but... fuck it! Once we’re planet side we’re going our separate ways, so fine! Be awful! What’s it matter now?!”</p><p>He stomps away before anyone can say another word.</p><p>“Aw, Martin,” Tim says. “Jon! C’mon!”</p><p>He starts to get up to follow, but Sasha stops him. That’s just fine with Martin. Everyone is whispering up front—Basira with Daisy, Sasha with Tim. There’s no room for real privacy, but once he crouches down next to Jon—mindful of the wings draped behind him, it’s easier to block the others out. The rumble of the engines at the back helps, too.</p><p>“Hey,” he says softly. “Sorry. I mean, I would’ve defended your honor more vehemently, but I’m pretty sure Daisy would wipe the floor with me.”</p><p>Jon huffs something close to a laugh and looks up. His big eyes are glistening with tears. It occurs to Martin a little late that maybe he didn’t want anyone, not even him, chasing after him to the back corner.</p><p>“I, um, I can leave you alone if you prefer,” Martin says, blushing. “I don’t want to smother you.”</p><p>Jon frantically shakes his head and turns, pulling Martin into a tight embrace with all his arms. He folds his wings around them, hiding his face as he sobs into Martin’s chest. The noise is drowned out by the rattle and roar that erupts all around the shuttle.</p><p>“Entering Atmo!” Basira calls, a little late.</p><p>Martin clings tightly to Jon and silently prays the old junk heap can take it.</p>
<hr/><p>Jon fears they’re not going to make it. He wishes he could die as a human, but if nothing else he’ll be with Martin. It’s a small consolation that the ship burning up on re-entry will destroy any evidence of what he became—what Elias did to him. He hopes Elias turns out even more hideous, suffers even more, but he doesn’t want his last thoughts to be of that bastard.</p><p>Tim is yelling that he’s sorry for everything, including calling him mothboss, but it hardly matters now.</p><p>Jon brings his original hands up and gently touches Martin’s face. Martin blinks, realizing he had his eyes shut tight, and looks at him in confusion and concern. The entire shuttle interior is bathed in flickering red and orange that gives the scene a surreal, dream like quality. Jon wishes it really was it dream, then he could at least kiss Martin. He settles for pressing their foreheads together, feels Martin’s breath brush the tear-drenched fur of his face as he laughs.</p><p>“I love you, too,” Martin says, and lightly kisses Jon where his mouth should be. Jon shivers with delight.</p><p>The shaking of the shuttle suddenly stops. The red glow gives way to the dim overhead lighting once more. It’s night on this part of Earth.</p><p>“We made it!” Sasha yells.</p><p>Celebrations break out up front.</p><p>“Don’t hug me yet,” Basira groans. “I still have to land this thing.”</p><p>Jon stares at Martin, who smiles back. He has no idea how they can possibly live a normal life on Earth.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin sees the concern in Jon’s eyes. He pulls him back into a hug.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “You’re stuck with me no matter what. After all, who else can make tea just like you like it?”</p><p>Jon trills a proper laugh and immediately looks embarrassed at the noise of unrestrained mirth he makes. Martin beams. It’s a beautiful sound, but Jon was always embarrassed at being coaxed into uttering anything more than a dry ‘heh’ even before he was a mothman.</p><p>Jon harrumphs, meaning he’s won this round, and gently pulls Martin up with him as he stands. He gestures at his face worriedly with one hand while still keeping an arm around Martin.</p><p>“You’re fine,” Martin whispers. “Can’t even tell.”</p><p>Jon’s antennae drift forward as he sighs.</p><p>“There’s no shame in—” Martin starts to say, but a firm nudge in the side from one of Jon’s new arms stops him. Fair enough. It’s understandable he wouldn’t want the others seeing any trace of him crying for fear of more grief. </p><p>Which reminds Martin...</p><p>“You all owe Jon an apology,” he says as they step back up front. “Except maybe Basira.”</p><p>“I’ll apologize for Daisy, anyway.”</p><p>“Hey!” Daisy snaps. She rounds on them. “Look, my apology is coming up, alright? Just wait and see.”</p><p>“I already apologized,” Tim says, folding his arms.</p><p>Sasha snorts. “You were also going down a very long and colorful list of sins you begged forgiveness for, but I don’t know if they caught all that.”</p><p>“Okay,” Tim sighs. “Now that we’re no longer in any eminent danger, I officially re-apologize for anything I said or did to displease you, <em>boss</em>.”</p><p>Sasha nudges him. “Our department literally went up in flames, love.”</p><p>“Jon,” Tim amends.</p><p>Jon nods his satisfaction with the apology.</p><p>“Well, if he’s happy,” Martin says. “I’m happy.”</p><p>“Won’t be much further now.” Basira sounds like she’ll just be happy to be free of the shuttle and everyone in it—except maybe Daisy, of course.</p>
<hr/><p>Jon isn’t quite sure if ‘happy’ is the right word for how he feels. Slightly relieved, maybe. His mood is downgraded from utter despair, definitely, leaving him feeling confused and more than a little concerned for the future. Making amends over hurt feelings with the others didn’t help allay those fears much at all. One weight was lifted, the one remaining feels much heavier.</p><p>He’s still a monster. Martin loving him doesn’t fix that, despite countless fairy  tales saying otherwise. Now, even if there’s a possibility science can somehow reverse the change, he doesn’t want to risk putting his body through the strain for Martin’s sake. He’s truly struck.</p><p>He looks at his hands, at the reduced number of fingers and the claws, and sucks in a breath as he realizes something. Martin tries to bat his hand away as Jon pulls at the dark fabric, but a glimpse is all he needs to confirm his fears.</p><p>He scratched him badly enough to tear through the fabric and draw blood.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Martin whispers, folding his arms over his chest to hide it from everyone else. He winces as he does so. “Don’t worry about it.”</p><p>Jon utters a low, frustrated whine at the back of his throat. How can he not worry? He hurt him! He drew blood! He looks at his claws and wonders if he scrubbed them well enough to get all traces of contaminants off.</p><p>The floor beneath them shakes as the shuttle touches down. In all their time in the air, Jon never thought to get a good look at where they were going. Daisy and Basira were frequent visitors to their division, but they were security. Who knows what their true motivations for joining in on the escape plan could be? This could still be a trap. </p><p>Jon tenses, ready flee the moment the door opens, but Martin puts a hand on his shoulder. “I’m with you no matter what, remember?”</p><p>Jon nods, his antennae still drifting about in a reflection of his agitation. Betrayal or no, he hopes there’s at least a well-stocked first aid kit wherever they end up.</p><p>Daisy stands. “Right.”</p><p>She looks Jon in the eye with some difficulty. Her lip twitches, but she manages to school the disgust from her face. “I told you my apology is coming, didn’t I? Well, it’s a through the forest and a little down the path.”</p><p>Basira looks over in surprise. “Don’t tell me...”</p><p>Daisy shrugs. “You hate it there, anyway.”</p><p>“I said my <em>allergies</em> hate it.” Basira shakes her head, her gaze coming to rest thoughtfully on Jon and Martin. “But it’s a good idea. They’ll need some place remote to stay, just to be safe.”</p><p>“Um, sorry,” Tim pipes up. “What exactly are you talking about?”</p><p>Basira chuckles. “Apparently we’re giving the happy couple our summer house in the Scottish Highlands.”</p><p>Jon makes a very undignified yelp of surprise.</p>
<hr/><p>Martin goes beet red. Jon’s ‘eep’ sounds very cute, but still.</p><p>“How did you know?” he demands.</p><p>Tim and Sasha burst into laughter. Daisy just shakes her head and trudges outside.</p><p>“We’re just glad you two finally figured it out,” Sasha says, giving him a little pat on the shoulder. </p><p>“Mazel tov,” Tim adds, and together they exit the shuttle.</p><p>Martin is glad he already had his arms folded to hide the scratches and tears in his t-shirt, otherwise he might have done something foolish like hurt himself getting huffy over the fact apparently everyone else was already aware of his feelings for Jon.</p><p>He glances to Basira, who is still fiddling with the shuttle controls.</p><p>“Seriously, though? A house?” </p><p>“Seriously,” she confirms, not bothering to look up. “Go on ahead with the others. Sasha cloaked our signal, but I need to make sure we aren’t going to be followed. I’ll catch up to you when I know it’s safe.”</p><p>Martin reaches out for Jon, who casts one last lingering look at Basira before taking his hand. He’s mindful of the claws this time. Martin can’t blame him for opening the cuts before—he was so pumped full of adrenaline from fear of dying on re-entry that he didn’t even feel anything until long after he calmed down. </p><p>Once they exit the shuttle to find they’ve touched down in the middle of a forest clearing, Martin knows his sides are going to be screaming by the time they make it to Daisy’s place.</p><p>“How the hell can you afford a summer home?” Tim is saying. “We could barely even afford a decent flat on our combined pay.”</p><p>“It’s just an old family cabin I inherited,” Daisy says. “Used for hunting. Barely even worth the land it’s on.”</p><p>“Damn, we’re off the grid,” Sasha exclaims. “I didn’t think places like this still existed.”</p><p>Daisy nods as Martin and Jon rejoin the group. “That’s why there’s no getting rid of the place. C’mon. It’s not far. I can drive you two into town once Basira catches up.”</p><p>“Is the local inn at least connected?” Sasha asks. “I have things I need to check on.”</p><p>“Yes, Sasha,” Daisy says in an exasperated sing-song. </p><p>“Think we’ll also maybe make it to the pub before last call?” Tim asks hopefully.</p><p>Daisy throws a glance over her shoulder as they walk. “Depends on how long Basira is covering our tracks.”</p><p>“Excuse me,” Sasha huffs. “I already took care of that. As far as anyone knows, the shuttle broke apart and burned up on entry along with the rest of the station debris.”</p><p>“Better safe than sorry.” Daisy picks up her pace so she’s walking ahead of the rest of the group. Tim and Sasha move a little faster without quite closing the gap, the insult to Sasha’s computer skills having driven quite the wedge. Martin can’t hope to keep pace, so he lets the distance between them slowly grow as Tim focuses on assuring Sasha she’s a hacker without peer.</p><p>Jon murmurs his concern as Martin starts wheezing.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Martin insists. “Just not used to natural atmosphere and gravity is all. I guess Daisy wasn’t kidding when she said it was the highlands.”</p><p>Jon’s antennae flick from side to side as he shrugs. It’s a full moon out, but there’s so much cloud cover it hardly makes a difference. Even stranger than having things like clouds or natural light to contend with again is the way Jon’s eyes drink in what little light there is and throw it back when he tilts his head just right. It’s fascinating to look at, but if Martin doesn’t watch where he’s going he’s liable to trip and fall. The last thing he needs is to get dirt in his open cuts—or alert the others to the fact he’s cut up in the first place.</p><p>“Once everyone else leaves I’ll find a first aid kit and deal with these,” Martin says quietly. Jon shakes his head and points emphatically to himself.</p><p>“Fine,” Martin sighs. “But please don’t blame yourself, okay? Neither of us were thinking. I didn’t even feel it, besides.”</p><p>But He’s certainly feeling it by the time they get to the cabin, which looks like something out of an idyllic old painting. Even with all the windows still dark, seeing it makes Martin feel like everything’s going to be okay. He reaches out for one of Jon’s hands.</p>
<hr/><p>Jon takes Martin’s hand and squeezes. He still feels immensely guilty for what he did, accident or no, and wonders if a nail file will have any effect on his claws. He might have to get something stronger.</p><p>A light comes on in one of the cabin windows, flaring like a beacon in the darkness and drawing Jon’s attention. He didn’t realize how far ahead the others had gotten.</p><p>“It’s really nice of Daisy to let us use this place,” Martin says, glancing to Jon as they approach the front door. “Don’t you think?”</p><p>Jon grumbles noncommittally. It still feels too good to be true, but as long as there’s a first aid kit inside that’s all that matters for the moment.</p><p>The door opens as they mount the front porch steps. Jon tenses, squeezing Martin’s hand, but it’s just Daisy.</p><p>“I’m sorry for everything, alright?” She remains blocking their path. “We could have stopped all this sooner, but we didn’t.”</p><p>“W-what,” Martin stammers. “You don’t mean...”</p><p>Jon is too shocked and angry to make a sound. How much did they know? How early? He has so many questions.</p><p>Daisy forces herself to look him in the eye. Her shadowed expression is hard to read. “This is literally the least I could do to make up for it, but right now I need to go check on the car.” She glances to Martin. “When Basira gets in, tell her I’m out in the shed.”</p><p>That said, she pushes past them and disappears around the side of the cabin.</p><p>Jon almost calls out to her before he remembers the best he can do is make inarticulate moth creature noises. He grumbles in frustration. </p><p>Martin squeezes his hand again. “Let’s just get inside.”</p><p>Sasha and Tim are just coming down the stairs as they enter.</p><p>“Quite a nice little love nest you’ve got here,” Tim says, giving them the thumbs up. “Bit dusty, but still very cozy. Frankly, I’m jealous.”</p><p>“Tim, stop.” Sasha laughs and nudges him hard in the shoulder.</p><p>Martin glances to Jon, who shakes his head in resignation. Tim will be Tim.</p><p>“We’re going to go and see if there’s any hope of getting a signal outside,” Sasha says.</p><p>“Try and behave you two!” Tim calls in farewell as she pulls him along.</p><p>Jon sighs in relief as they’re finally alone. The energy in the cabin changes once the door shuts and it’s just the two of them. The others are still on the property, yes, but Jon allows himself to relax a little.</p><p>He hopes he’s not being too presumptuous. </p>
<hr/><p>“Okay,” Martin says. “I’ll go look for the—”</p><p>Jon cuts him off with an annoyed trill. He pulls Martin over to the couch and points with one of his extra arms.</p><p>“Oh, fine,” Martin relents. “I’ll sit and rest. You get the kit. I still say it’s not that bad.”</p><p>He pulls up his shirt as proof. It’s his first time seeing them as well, so he’s immensely glad to see he’s more or less correct. They look like slightly inflamed cat scratches for the most part—if cats only had three claws on each paw. A few are oozing blood, but it’s not quite the horror show Jon was probably expecting.</p><p>Jon’s antennae still lay flat as he makes a distressed sound low in his throat. </p><p>Martin pulls his shirt back down. “I’m really more upset about this shirt. It’s real vintage, but I guess the shredded bits make for a distressed look. Still, not your fault. That re-entry was... something. But we made it!”</p><p>He sinks down into the couch and tries not to breathe in the cloud of dust that kicks up. </p><p>“We’ve also got a lot of cleaning to do, goodness.”</p><p>Jon frantically gestures that he not move a muscle and goes off in search of a first aid kit. There aren’t many lights lit in the cabin, all of which seem to be oil lanterns, but the large pockets of shadow don’t seem to hamper him in the slightest. He returns from the kitchen with the kit, his antennae waving in what Martin takes to be an indication of agitation. Jon clearly wants to get everything taken care of before any of the others return, but that’s easily done when he’s got an extra set of arms.</p><p>Martin watches him work while holding his shirt up.</p><p>“You’re already a lot better with those,” he says, meaning his new hands.</p><p>The compliment makes Jon fumble as he bandages the cuts.</p><p>“No, really!” Martin insists, but he’s already ruined it. Now that he’s aware of his extra limbs again, Jon no longer works quite as skillfully. Martin has to help with the last of the cuts, but together they manage to get it taken care of quickly enough.</p><p>Jon hurriedly stashes the kit under the couch with his lower arms as the front door opens.</p><p>It’s Basira.</p><p>“Oh, hi!” Martin stands to hide what Jon’s up to, wincing only a little at the pain in his sides. “Daisy’s out in the shed. Are Sasha and Tim still wandering out front?”</p><p>Basira scowls. It looks particularly frightening in the low light. “Don’t tell me they think they can’t get a signal.”</p><p>“Technology addicts,” Martin laughs. “What can you do?”</p><p>Why does he feel guilty? What is there to feel guilty about? If anything, Basira should feel guilty. She and Daisy apparently knew what Elias was planning, and they didn’t intervene, much less warn anyone.</p><p>Basira must see something in his expression—or maybe Jon’s. “What is it?”</p><p>Martin glances at Jon. Sure enough, he’s staring at Basira, his whole body rigid with tension. Martin awkwardly hooks his arm around both of Jon’s furry ones. “It’s just been a very long day. Hard to believe we’re back on Earth now, y’know?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Basira says, eyeing them with a guarded expression. “Anyway, I should go see what I can do to help.”</p><p>“Right!”</p><p>Martin lets out a huge sigh as soon as the door closes again.</p><p>“It really is incredible being back on earth,” Martin says to Jon, not wanting to discuss the whole issue of Basira and Daisy. “The air feels weird, but I guess that’s just how it is after breathing recycled air for so long.”</p><p>He sits back down on the couch. Jon awkwardly remains standing.</p><p>“Oh, right. Your wings.” </p><p>Jon folds his arms and looks at his feet.</p><p>“Maybe they’ll be less sensitive over time,” Martin offers.</p><p>Jon eyes the couch warily.</p><p>“You could try stretching out on your stomach?”</p><p>Jon gestures to the window. Right. He doesn’t want to get too comfortable with the others still around.</p><p>“Do you want to see what they’re up to?”</p><p>Jon nods.</p>
<hr/><p>The car pulls around just as they step out on to the porch. Jon is more than a little relieved. He didn’t want to to step out from the cover of it, anyway.</p><p>Martin looks a distressed at how fast things are happening, particularly once he sees everyone piled in the old all-terrain vehicle. Tim rolls down the window so he can and Sasha can both lean out, much to Daisy’s annoyance.</p><p>“Don’t worry,” Sasha calls. “We’ll be back to check in on you tomorrow!”</p><p>“Right, so try and be decent!”</p><p>“Wait, wait, wait!” Martin flails his arms and hurries down the steps. “At least let me make a list of essentials!”</p><p>“They’re <em>essentials</em>, Martin.” Tim laughs as the car comes to an abrupt halt. “We can figure out what you need.”</p><p>Martin’s shoulders sag. “But the tea...”</p><p>“We’ll get an assortment!” Sasha waves as Daisy starts off down the gravel driveway once more. “Have fun!”</p><p>Martin watches the retreating tail lights with his hands on his hips for a few seconds before turning back to Jon.</p><p>“Honestly!” he huffs. “What do they expect us to do?”</p><p>Jon shrugs helplessly. All he wants is to get a good fire going and see if there are any decent books in the cabin. After all the talk of science fiction earlier, he’s not terribly hopeful.</p><p>Odd to think his life is now like a bad science fiction story, though those usually don’t end with the monster finding true love.</p><p>Martin grins as he walks back to the porch steps. “What’s that look for?”</p><p>Jon tenses, his antennae flying straight up in what he’s starting to realizing is a dead give-away for surprise. He fights the urge to pull them back down with his hands and they relax on their own as he shrugs.</p><p>“That was definitely a look,” Martin insists. “A sort of dreamy look.”</p><p>Jon grumbles and turns his hands out in defeat. He caught him. Martin laughs with delight as he climbs the stairs. Before Jon knows it they’re hugging again—carefully, gently. No need for a repeat of earlier, not when he just bandaged the scratches.</p><p>“I’m glad I’m here with you,” Martin says softly.</p><p>Jon nods his agreement. He wishes he could say more, but they’ll have plenty of time to practice sign language while hidden away from the rest of the world.</p><p>It’s the perfect arrangement, the best Jon could hope for given the circumstances. Martin lightly kisses him on the forehead, and finally Jon allows himself to relax.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Next time: Elias’s fate</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Presenting: a Nightmare</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Real Bastard Hours</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Figured the themes and cursing have finally stretched past the limit of a T rating, so it’s up to M just in case things get even worse in the future! Woo!</p><p>Includes gratuitous pipe murder, but Peter arrives late to the scene of the crime, and the victim is an android that doesn’t even look human, so it’s debatable if that counts.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Elias is standing in the middle of an empty stage wearing his best suit, note cards clutched in his hands. The spotlight trained on him is much too bright, it hurts his eyes and makes it impossible to make out anyone in the audience. He tries shielding his eyes, but all he sees are vague silhouettes filling the seats. Watching. Waiting.</p><p>A cough breaks the silence in the auditorium, reminding him this is the most important presentation of his life and he’s said nothing. He introduced himself, didn’t he? He must have—or was introduced—though he doesn’t remember walking out on stage. Someone in the audience clears their throat. Right. Get on with it. </p><p>Elias looks to his notes.</p><p>They’re blank.</p><p>He shuffles the cards. They’re all blank. Every single one. He feels a bead of sweat drip down his forehead. It falls onto the top most card.</p><p>It’s not sweat, but a thick black ichor that stains the card like an ink blot. Elias brings his hand to his forehead. His fingers come away stained with the same black substance—the catalyst he used in his experiments. He rubs it between his fingers. It glistens under the harsh spotlight.</p><p>A sudden jab of pain makes him drop the note cards. They scatter everywhere. Elias’s hand spasms as the ichor sinks into it, twisting it, forcing the fingers together until he’s left with only two elongated fingers and a thumb. His skin becomes scaly, blackened, and the discoloration is spreading towards the wrist. He grabs it without thinking, as if that would stop it, and cries out in pain as the other hand begins to change as well.</p><p>Intrigued muttering goes up amongst the crowd. Was it coincidence, or was it skin to skin contact? Elias would wonder the same if it wasn’t currently happening to him. </p><p>“Someone, please—”</p><p>He cuts himself off. It’s pointless to cry out. What help is there to be found in a room full of scientists who came to see him present something truly astounding? This is what he promised them, after all.</p><p>Elias feels something pushing against his sides. He folds his arms tight, trying to to keep it in, but it cannot—absolutely will not be contained. He screams as new arms burst forth in a shower of the same black ichor as before, ruining his suit. The audience gasps and applauds.</p><p>“Bastards,” he snarls. “I’m not supposed to be the one on d—” his tongue lolls out in the middle of the sentence, growing grotesquely long and thin. His mouth pulls closed while the nascent proboscis turns black and curls in on itself. Robbed of speech, all Elias can do is growl low in his throat as the crowd goes wild.</p><p>He tries to flee the stage, only to slip on the scattered cards. The audience laughs as Elias lands face first on the stage, all four arms splayed in front of him. His back is throbbing, burning, and another gasp goes up as something bursts through his his suit. Wings, of course.</p><p>His face itches. The fur is the last thing to grow in. Elias doesn’t move, doesn’t bother trying to push himself up.</p><p>There’s a click as someone cuts in over the auditorium speakers.</p><p>“We’ll now open the floor for questions.”</p><p>Loud shuffling as a microphone is repositioned.</p><p>“Hi, yes, what was the point of this?”</p><p>They wait for an answer he can’t give, then the next person in line moves up.</p><p>“What did you hope to accomplish?”</p><p>And the next.</p><p>“Did you really think this would save your career? Or were you just using it as an excuse to punish your most irksome associate?”</p><p>The moderator yanks the microphone back.</p><p>“One question at a time, please.”</p><p>There’s feedback as the microphone is returned.</p><p>“Allow me to rephrase—would you agree that both your career and your life are over now?”</p><p>Elias can’t take this anymore. He presses his face into the stage.</p><p>“Do you regret this?”</p><p>He can feel the floorboards give a little against his head.</p><p>Elias can’t take this anymore. He presses his face into the stage.</p><p>“Do you regret this?”</p><p>He can feel the floorboards give a little against his head.</p><p>“Do you think you deserve this?”</p><p>Maybe he does. Elias presses harder. The stage gives. </p><p>He breaks through.</p><p>And wakes up.</p><hr/><p>An alert rouses Peter at 2:30 in the goddamn morning. </p><p>He grumbles and rolls out of bed. It’s the motion sensors he set up in that one particular storage compartment. Weeks of nothing, now this. He fumbles for the nearest console to check the video feed, but it shows a lot of garbled, glitchy nonsense as usual. Elias did say the black stuff messed with the cameras in all its forms, including the cocoon. </p><p>Peter sighs and pulls a robe on so he’s not wearing just boxers. He’s going to have to go down and check on it personally, then.</p><p>He turns the wedding band on his finger as he walks through the Tundra. </p><p>Some reunion this will be.</p><hr/><p>Elias takes a moment to get his bearings. The small room is dark metal from floor to ceiling and completely bare of decorations or amenities. The running lights recessed where the wall meets the ceiling provide little in the way of cold, dim light, but this place isn’t meant to house passengers or crew. Elias doesn’t know the exact chamber, but he recognizes the general aesthetic. He remembers chiding Peter for how dark and depressing everything looked when he gave him the grand tour—this was during their first marriage, which feels like ages ago—and Peter’s retort was that cargo ships weren’t supposed to be bright or cheerful.</p><p>It’s a storage compartment on the Tundra.</p><p>Jon was in that cocoon for weeks. Peter didn’t so much deduce that round the clock supervision was unnecessary—or maybe Elias let it slip while he was drunk, he can’t remember—as decide it was easier to just chuck what became of his husband in the hold and forget about it.</p><p>This is grounds for divorce.</p><p>Elias bites back the anger of being treated like something to be hidden. He knows it’s practical, and that’s the man he married several times over. Elias’s refusal to face harsh truths concerning himself was cause for one of their previous divorces. Peter had gone on an excruciatingly long rant about how Elias acts like he knows everything, how he can do no wrong, how bloody annoying it is, and yet he still came crawling back in the end.</p><p>It wasn’t always Peter who resumed their endless dance after a breakup, however. Sometimes it was Elias, though he acted like he was doing Peter a favor by taking him back. Elias was never one to crawl back and beg forgiveness.</p><p>But crawling, ironically enough, is all Elias can manage right now. He doesn’t want to do it, doesn’t want to so much as look at himself, but he can feel the disgusting gelatinous ooze that emerged with him from the cocoon solidifying. If he doesn’t move now, he could very well end up glued to the floor. He can only stand so many indignities in the course of one day—or night, or whatever time it is at the moment.</p><p>Elias closes his eyes and flings his arms out to drag himself out of the sludge. Slowly, muscles burning with every agonizing movement, until he’s finally free of the muck.</p><p>Elias pushes himself into an awkward sitting position. One arm on his left side props him up, the other falls into his lap. </p><p>Two left arms. Just like in his dream.</p><p>He can’t keep ignoring it now.</p><p>Elias reluctantly opens his eyes.</p><p>It’s funny, in a way. He missed his opportunity to observe Jon fresh out of the cocoon. Now here he is in the exact same position. He doubts Martin made notes for comparison. No, he probably rushed to the aid of the monster that could potentially destroy him.</p><p>That was the idea.</p><p>But the mind remains intact post metamorphosis after all. Elias isn’t sure if he’s relieved or not. He’s distantly aware that what he’s experiencing is a state of shock, because even <em>he</em> isn’t quite this clinically detached.</p><p>He raises the new hand, with its three clawed digits. It trembles so badly he has to steady it with the right. Nutrients. He has no idea what he’s supposed to survive on now. Elias touches his face. Trying to open his mouth instead unfurls a long proboscis, also just like the dream. He can practically hear the laughter of the crowd.</p><p>No.</p><p>He can’t take any more of this self-exploration. Not right now. Elias pushes himself up to his feet, flails, and ends up right back on the ground where he started.</p><p>Trying to utter a litany of curses only leads to a low, rumbling growl. He tries to get up again, slowly, and waits until he has his balance before walking forward. He trips and falls against the compartment door, but it’s progress.</p><p>He can feel the vibrations of the ship beneath him, knows it’s in space somewhere, so Peter has to be aboard. Finding him and having it out with him would at least provide some semblance of normalcy in this nightmare.</p><p>Elias stumbles out into the hall and nearly collides with a laughably outdated maintenance droid. It steps back with a whirr of servos, its scanners roving over him.</p><p>“Sensor error,” a male automated voice says. “Recalibrating.”</p><p>The droid starts to resume its route, notes Elias is still there, and scans him again.</p><p>“Sensor error,” it repeats.</p><p>Elias doesn’t know why he finds this enraging. He should be glad it can’t see him. But this is proof he’s no longer Elias Bouchard, no longer human, no longer worthy of recognition by so much as an antique maintenance droid. He’s just some grotesque creature only fit to be hidden away like a dirty secret, never to see the light of day again. </p><p>His career is over. His life is over. His latest marriage is probably over, too.</p><p>Elias might be crying. It doesn’t matter, the bloody droid can’t register him, anyway.</p><p>Elias wraps his clawed fingers around one of the narrow pipes running along the wall. The ship is old, refurbished several times over, and the piping was rendered redundant decades ago as whatever it carried through the ship was rerouted or rendered completely unnecessary. A section of it comes away easily once he pulls on it with all four hands.</p><p>“Sensor error,” the droid says yet again. “Requesting service.”</p><p>Elias raises the pipe. </p><p>Oh, he’ll service it, alright...</p><hr/><p>Peter hears the noise the moment the lift doors open on the cargo level. Sounds like metal pounding on metal. He hurries toward the source, rounding the corner to find...</p><p>“What the fuck?”</p><p>A creature—no, that must be Elias—beating the ever-living shit out of Jurgen, his oldest maintenance droid, with a pipe. </p><p>The robot is already a total loss by the time Peter arrives on scene, its caved-in head no longer so much as sparking, but Elias just keeps wailing on it, further reducing any chance of salvaging the thing for parts.</p><p>He’s also weeping. At least, Peter is fairly certain that’s what that keening sound is—as he creeps closer Peter can see the tears to confirm it. </p><p>Elias is quite the sight to behold. His fur is the same color of the wine he was drinking that night, a lovely deep red. It will no doubt look even better when all the oil and unidentifiable gunk is washed from it. His huge green eyes appear to glow under the hall lights as tears stream from them. The lump on his back will be wings eventually, but right now it’s just getting in the way of everything.</p><p>“Elias,” Peter calls. He doesn’t hear him, doesn’t stop. </p><p>Peter tries again, louder—still nothing.</p><p>Finally, when he shouts over the sound of gratuitous droid mutilation, Elias stops. Very long, thin antennae twitch and drift upwards. They’re so long that they can almost touch Peter from a meter away.</p><p>The pipe slips from Elias’s hands and lands on the floor with a clatter. His big eyes well with flesh tears. There’s a glint of something on his left hand—the original left, that is—somehow his wedding band survived the change even though he no longer has the same number of fingers. Odd. </p><p>Peter is still staring when Elias smacks him across the face. </p><p>“Ow!” Peter touches his cheek. It’s a small miracle those claws don’t tear his skin. “What was that for?!”</p><p>“The cargo hold?! Elias angrily signs, his new hands giving the question something of an echo—or a slur if one counts how they sometimes fumble into one another. Peter still gets the gist.</p><p>“What was I supposed to do?” Peter demands. “You were in that thing for weeks, it’s creepy, and it smelled like... I can’t even describe it.”</p><p>Elias stares at him. He’s trembling—could be rage, could be weakness, could be a mix of the two. His signing is getting even sloppier. “Do I smell?”</p><p>Peter sighs. “You’re an absolute mess, dear. We need to get you clean and fed.”</p><p>Elias tries to sign something more, only to tangle his hands up. He whines in frustration. Peter steps over the wreckage of Jurgen and gently pulls his arms apart. It doesn’t particularly matter they’re covered in oil and worse, he’s used to getting dirty. Elias used to complain about it all the time, said he couldn’t take him anywhere. Now Elias stares up at Peter, amazed that he’ll touch him, and tears well in his eyes again.</p><p>“You’re getting awfully weepy, Elias,” Peter says, gently teasing him. Elias collapses into his chest, sobbing outright.</p><p>“Ah.” Peter awkwardly touches Elias’s shoulder, unable to fully embrace him for the folded lump of wings on his back. “That’s not necessarily a bad thing.”</p><p>Elias’s long antennae drift forward to rest on  Peter’s forehead, and it suddenly feels like he’s falling.</p><hr/><p>Elias doesn’t realize what he’s doing until it’s too late. The connection is made. He’s falling into Peter’s memories, and vice versa. He sees Peter picking up the pieces after the explosion, selling everything off, letting Daedalus take the remaining departments. As far as anyone else knew, Elias was in seclusion following the disaster and the loss of his team. No bodies were recovered. They were all declared dead.</p><p>Elias pulls away. His antennae jerk back behind his head. He refuses to believe that. If they were clever enough to do <em>this</em> to him, they were clever enough to get away from the damned station unharmed.</p><p>“What the hell?” Peter mutters.</p><p>Elias briefly wonders what Peter had seen, but no, he has to find out what really happened to his subordinates. He grabs Petered with one set of his arms to steady himself and uses the others to sign. “Messages?”</p><p>“For you?” Peter shakes his head and blinks several times, trying to shake off whatever vision he had seen. “Yes, dear. Lots. You’re technically not dead, after all.”</p><p>Elias huffs in consternation and adds, “Encrypted.”</p><p>“Oh.” Peter nods. “Just a few. But I insist you get cleaned up and figure out what you eat before anything.”</p><p>Elias growls, but nods. His erstwhile husband—though he keeps forgetting to demand a divorce—has a point. Elias feels like he’s about to shatter into pieces.</p><p>Peter smiles and plants a ginger kiss on his forehead.</p><p>“One question, though,” he says. “Are your dreams always that fucked up, or was it just the cocoon’s work?”</p><p>Elias makes the sign for ‘divorce.’ Peter laughs. “That can also wait until after a meal and a bath, I think.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Jurgen dies for his crimes in every universe.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Wings and Things</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Learning to Fly.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The cycle of getting blocked on one story and moving to another continues.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin is drawn into the backyard one night by the sound of distressed... chirping? No, hooting. Or is it more of a whippoorwill call? Though the lack of net access is great for reading, he does miss the inability to look up whatever comes to mind.</p><p>“Oh, shit.”</p><p>Turns out the sound was a mix of all three as Jon tried to get his attention from the tree he’s currently stuck high up in like an oversized cat. </p><p>“Aw, Jon!” Martin calls, cupping his hands so his voice will carry. “You should have told me you were going to try again! I’d have come.”</p><p>Jon pries his top pair of arms over the thick branch he’s clinging to to try and sign something, but he’s very high up, his hands are shaking, and it’s too dark to clearly make out what he’s trying to say. Martin just has to assume Jon’s pride drove him to try and sneak off practicing flying in secret, and the logical conclusion that jumping from higher up than before might work better backfired once he realized how high up he actually was.</p><p>Martin wishes he hadn’t laughed last time. It was a totally involuntary reaction to Jon wildly flailing all six limbs when he jumped.</p><p>“I’m sorry about before, okay?” He yells. “I’ll go get the...” he tails off, realizing the ladder won’t help them this time. “Uh, actually, do you think you can climb down?”</p><p>Jon’s eyes flash as he lifts his head. He makes an indignant high pitched screech. Treed pet cats would probably argue against the suggestion if they could, too.</p><p>“Okay! Okay!” Martin runs a hand through his hair, trying to think. Finally, he just holds his arms out. “Just jump!”</p><p>Jon’s eyes flicker as he blinks owlishly at the absurd suggestion.</p><p>“Well, we can’t exactly call the fire department can we?” Martin holds his arms out. “Go on! I can take it! I mean take you—er, catch you! Aw, you know what I mean! Jump!”</p><p>Wow, that all sounds very bad. Not at all smooth. Martin blames mostly communicating via sign over the past few weeks while helping Jon practice, though he often said what he was signing aloud, it still meant thinking more about what he was saying. </p><p>He hopes Jon’s night vision isn’t so good that he can see him blushing.</p><p>Jon keeps making argumentative chittering sounds.</p><p>“Well, it’s that or wait until daylight so we can argue properly!” Martin yells back. “I’m afraid Daisy doesn’t have a spotlight in that shed of hers.”</p><p>There’s a flicker of movement from Jon.</p><p>“I hope you didn’t just flip me off, darling dearest!”</p><p>Jon makes a shrill noise that Martin takes to mean ‘I would never.’</p><p>“Okay, so—“ Martin holds his wide. “Whenever you’re ready!”</p><p>Jon shifts position slowly, his dark fur making him hard to track even once Martin’s eyes have fully adjusted to the darkness. Attempting this on the night of a new moon is logical for the sake of keeping any potential mothman sightings to a minimum should Jon’s flying practice prove successful, Martin gets that, but damn.</p><p>Suddenly there’s a scraping sound, a strangled whoop, and Jon leaps from the branch. He’s falling fast, a shadow with two glowing eyes descending rapidly towards Martin. It takes everything to fight off the primal instinct to duck and cover and instead stay still and keep reaching out to him, but in the last second there’s a strange whispering noise and a gust of air blows back Martin’s hair. </p><p>Jon does not land on top of him. Indeed, Jon does not land at all. </p><hr/><p>The lurching sensation deep in Jon’s chest turns from terror to exhilaration as his wings buoy him up. He misses colliding with Martin by less than a meter before rising again, and suddenly it’s not unlike being on a rollercoaster—he always felt daft for the moments of mortal terror he experienced on those, too.</p><p>Jon lets out of a whoop of pure joy, but it’s not what he expects joy to sound like. It’s a haunting cry that echoes through the trees and sends the night birds that had just settled after his earlier ruckus fleeing back into the skies.</p><p>It hits Jon all a once that this isn’t him fooling around on a rollercoaster or a hang glider in the dead of night, it’s his own damn wings. Weeks of adjusting, learning to accept his new body, to communicate. and still the horror and loathing of it all will hit him like a rock of nowhere at the most inopportune moments—like when he’s airborne and in no position to be overthinking what he is or what he’s presently doing.</p><p>Jon flails and crashes into the grass, bouncing a few times before coming to rest a few meters shy of the back porch. </p><p>He groans. At least the experiment was technically a success. </p><p>Martin is at his side in a second, calling his name over and over and relaxing only slightly when Jon raises a shaky hand to sign that he’s okay.</p><p>It’s a lie, of course. Jon is a wreck.</p><hr/><p>“Are you sure?” Martin can’t help fretting. Jon just looks so delicate once you get past the claws. “Nothing broken?”</p><p>Jon slowly sits up, the antennae artfully dipping just out of reach of Martin. He’s gotten good at avoiding accidental contact. It’s almost hypnotic how they dip and sway sometimes, but they also give his emotional state away. The way they fold back behind Jon’s head says it all.</p><p>“Oh,” Martin says softly. “One of those moments?”</p><p>Jon does a little double take. His eyes narrow as he realizes his antennae have betrayed him again, but it’s not like it wasn’t also apparent in the way his shoulders sagged, or the way he stared at the ground, pointedly keeping his own body out of sight. He psyched himself out mid-flight, just as he got airborne, and crashed because of it. They’ve been through this before, and generally all Martin could do in the past was give Jon space until he felt up to being around him again.</p><p>“Here.” Martin offers a hand as he stands. “Let’s go back inside. I can check you over better in the light, just a second, then if you want some time alone, that’s fine.”</p><p>“No,” Jon frantically signs while still grabbing hold of his hand. The benefit of multiple pairs of arms is he can talk and act at once, sometimes to his own detriment. “Please stay.”</p><p>“Okay.” Martin smiles as he gently pulls Jon to his feet. “Come on, then.”</p><hr/><p>Damn antennae, broadcasting Jon’s emotional state to the world. When he‘s happy or thinking of a particular song they drift from side to side as if conducting an orchestra. Martin thinks it’s adorable. When Jon’s upset, like now, they fold back against his head until they nearly touch his wings.</p><p>His wings. He can’t stop thinking about his wings. They’re so much lighter than that first night out of the cocoon, when they were just wet lumps that still needed blood pumped through them. Now they’re not only fully functional, he’s more or less used to navigating around them. Accidents still happen, like he might forget to draw them in when going around a corner and clip them against something. The pain is terrible, making him acutely aware of all the many nerve endings, and the shower of dislodged scales is worse.</p><p>Jon noticed Martin dusting now and then, though lately he mostly knits, and wonders how much of that is due to Jon’s normal shedding. Jon rubs his face with his hands. So much fur and scales. It’s disgusting. He’s disgusting.</p><p>“He we are, then,” Martin says cheerily, bringing Jon into the circle of light cast by his favorite two oil lamps. They do making the living room quite cozy, admittedly, but at the moment they make Jon feel incredibly exposed.</p><p>“Looks like you’ve just got some grass stains here and there,” Martin says. “But no cuts, luckily. How about your arms?”</p><p>Jon realizes he’s folded all four of them. He extends them out and looks away, cringing a little as Martin gently takes one of his wrists.</p><p>“Oh, dear.”</p><p>Jon looks over. One of the claws on his lower left hand is broken and bloody, apparently snapped in the rough landing. He didn’t notice before because he uses that hand least of all.</p><p>“I’ll get the first aid kit.” </p><p>As Martin hurries off, Jon is struck by the irony that he’s the one that needs treating now, and it’s still because of his claws. He debating filing them down several times since coming to the Cabin, but being out in the middle of nowhere made him too nervous to remove a potential means of defending Martin. Besides, they’re too useful for climbing. He just has to be mindful of them everywhere else. There haven’t been any other incidents like the first night. He occasionally slips and scratches the woodwork here and there, but the important thing is Martin’s scratches are all but completely healed.</p><p>Still, Jon can’t help but stare at how different his finger looks with the claw snapped off to a blunt and bloody edge.</p><hr/><p>“Jon?” Martin calls. He’s staring so intently at his wounded finger he doesn’t look up. Martin sets the first aid kit down and tries a little louder. Jon looks up and signs his apologies with his top set of arms. No wonder he didn’t notice the injury when his lower left is usually left hanging.</p><p>“It’s fine,” Martin says. “Just have a seat and I’ll fix you right up.”</p><p>The ottoman is pretty much Jon’s chair by default. It allows him to sit with his wings draped over the back no problem, and the dusting of scales Martin can never clean away fast enough show how they lay against it.</p><p>Jon holds out his hand and surprises Martin by watching closely as he goes about cleaning and disinfecting his finger. Once it’s wrapped, he holds out his hand, comparing how different the two fingers look when one claw is knocked off. They already discussed the pros and cons of keeping them long before, with Jon deciding it best to keep them just in case, but now it seems the gears in his head are grinding over that issue again.</p><p>“Do you want to see what I’ve been working on?” Martin asks. “You know, with the knitting?”</p><p>Jon looks up at him curiously, and to Martin’s relief his antennae even perk up at the question.</p><p>Martin digs out the basket by his chair and gives his not-so-secret project one last look to make sure he didn’t miss any glaring errors with the stitches before shyly holding it out.</p><p>“It’s pretty simple,” he says as Jon curiously turns it over in his hands. He probably thought it was a scarf or a blanket. “I didn’t want to give anything away by taking measurements, so it’s going to be loose. It’s, um, sort of like a sweater dress? The baggy kind. Only I made it so it’s armless and kind of open in the back cause, y’know, easier that way. For both of us. But I think the long turtleneck will anchor it all in place. Er, I hope.”</p><p>Martin can’t stop himself from rambling as Jon keeps turning the dress over in his hands—all four off them, exploring the plunging back that would frankly be indecent if Jon didn’t have wings.</p><p>“It’s just, uh, I know how you said you feel strange essentially being naked all the time. And it’s getting colder. Plus I thought you uh... looked cute when you did bother to dress casually around the station. That one long, flowing skirt with the flowers. That was—“</p><p>Jon throws his top set of arms around Martin in a hug while the bottom set still clutch the sweater dress.</p><p>“Nice,” Martin gasps.</p><hr/><p>Jon is overwhelmed. His eyes well with tears, and as he leans back he finds himself tripping over his words, his hands fumbling so he ends up slamming together a jumbled mess that hopefully still reads as “thank you, I love it, you’re wonderful” once everything is untangled.</p><p>Martin smiles and kisses him on the forehead. “You’re wonderful, too.”</p><p>Jon knows his antennae are doing that thing where they flutter all over the place, but he doesn’t care. “Help me try it on?”</p><p>“Of course!” Martin stands eagerly, taking the dress from Jon and pulling the neck wide. “I was thinking once we get it over your head then it’s just a matter of very... carefully...”</p><p>Once Jon’s antennae pop free they make contact with Martin’s forehead for the first time in days, communicating much more than Jon would like in that moment. He desperately wishes he could kiss him. It’s the ultimate cruelty that all his compulsions to kiss anyone come only after he has a mouth. The act still strikes him as awkward and gross on a fundamental level, but Jon wants nothing more than to be as close to Martin as possible, and if he wanted that could even mean...</p><p>Jon gasps and pulls away. Martin is blushing all the way to his ears, which helps to explain how much of that was communicated across the connection. Sometimes it goes both ways, but sometimes—like then—particularly strong feelings from one side overwhelm it. Jon didn’t even mean to broadcast that. He grabs his antennae and pulls them down. It hurts, but he doesn’t care. They deserve it, the treacherous things.</p><p>“It’s okay, it’s okay!” Martin says. “I had no idea you... I mean... um... let me help with the back!”</p><p>Jon can’t look at him or anything else. He just stands there as Martin ducks behind him and gently—much too gently, like he’s made of glass, lifts Jon’s wings to help thread the dress around them. It doesn’t hurt as much as Jon expects—in fact, it doesn’t hurt at all—but maybe it’s just that his antennae are still throbbing. Jon smooths the dress out. He likes the colors, the way it fades from one to another towards the hemline, and knows they were chosen to compliment his eyes and wing spots.</p><p>It’s... nice.</p><hr/><p>Martin puts his hands to his mouth, stifling the squeal of glee at seeing at how nice Jon looks. He was terrified he was going to look ridiculous wearing clothes, but it turns out the dress only makes Jon look even fluffier thanks to the way the turtleneck squeezes the fur around his neck and pushes it further up around it his throat.</p><p>“Is that uncomfortable?”</p><p>Jon shakes his head.</p><p>“Because you look lovely!”</p><p>Jon looks at his feet.</p><p>They should probably talk about the flashes Martin got through that momentary link, but Martin has no idea where to begin.</p><p>“I could try sewing arms next time, if you like.”</p><p>Jon’s antennae curl up into question marks as he looks up at Martin. They both know he’s avoiding the issue.</p><p>“Right...” Martin sighs. “About that. Do you think you know enough sigh to really talk about... <em>that?”</em></p><p>Jon shakes his head without hesitation. Those weren’t signs that came up through the course of their day to day conversations in the cabin, and Martin barely even learned everything necessary to discuss things in bed himself without dying of embarrassment. The whole class giggling didn’t help, either. They were all <em>supposed</em> to be adults.</p><p>“Maybe we should try that dream thing again?”</p><p>Jon nods.</p><p>“Great, because I was starting to feel a bit tired, anyway...”</p><p>That’s not even the half of it. All the evening’s excitement has left Martin feeling exhausted. Jon looks even worse off than him, and is all too happy to retreat upstairs. </p><p>He sleeps in the sweater dress.</p><hr/><p>They meet in the dreamscape of the park again.</p><p>“Oh, right,” Martin says, his voice a bit strangled. “Now I remember why that design seemed familiar.”</p><p>“You made a virgin killer sweater.”</p><p>The good thing about meeting in a shared dream is Jon can appear as human, thus not knowing the sign for ‘virgin’ or ‘killer’, among other things that have yet to come up naturally in their lessons and conversations, isn’t a problem. The fact Jon also subconsciously chose to wear the same sweater Martin made him while human, however, is suddenly a problem—especially given what they need to discuss.</p><p>“By accident!” Martin cries, the blush that started when he saw him spreading. “It was just the most practical design I could think of! And it’s not even the same, because the virgin killer has ties in the back!”</p><p>“So instead this is just very tight.”</p><p>“Well, you normally have fur...”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“And internal, um, bits.”</p><p>“Please stop staring.”</p><p>While Martin looks away, Jon tries to focus on some sort of compromise between forms. He wishes it were so easy in real life. The sigh he exhales fills the entire space between them in a rush of wind that rustles the leaves in the trees. Four arms again. Fur. Nothing messing up the lines of his dress. The wings hide just how plunging the back is, but make it necessary turn the bench they previously shared into a simple flat stone one.</p><p>“Oh,” Martin says breathlessly. “You’re getting quite good at this. I... uh... your face is... your eyes. That’s interesting.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Jon thought he left his face mostly human.</p><p>“Solid red.”</p><p>Jon feels himself flush. Of course, because the dress complimented them so well.</p><p>“I can change.”</p><p>“No, don’t,” Martin says quickly. “I like it. In fact, we probably shouldn’t rely on this overmuch. I mean, um, we should get to the point, you know?”</p><p>Jon sits down on the bench. “Sex.”</p><p>“Not here!” Martin flails, looking around as if there’s anyone who could possibly see in their private dreamscape.</p><p>“I mean discussing it.”</p><p>“Oh. Right.” </p><p>Jon sighs. It’s much softer than before. “I’m not opposed to the idea. That is, I’m not repulsed by it. You’re the one person I... but then...” he turns his hands out to stare at them. “Well, I’m not the man I used to be. Logistically speaking, I’m not sure how it would work.”</p><p>Martin sits down next to him. “I always did love that about you.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“The way you tackle everything.” Martin reaches over and takes one of Jon’s hands. “A problem to be solved. Even this. It’s cute.”</p><p>Jon blushes. “I just... I don’t want to hurt you. Not again. Not like those scratches.”</p><p>“That was an accident,” Martin says. “Those happen.”</p><p>“But if we’re going to... do this... I want it to be perfect.”</p><p>“We don’t have to,” Martin says, putting his other hand on top of Jon’s. “Not right away. I want you to be comfortable first. With... you know, yourself, everything.”</p><p>“Right.” Jon looks down, frowning as he remembers how and why he crashed. “That may be a while still.”</p><p>“We’ve got time.” Martin raises his hand and lightly kisses it. “And I’m with you all the way. No matter what.”</p><p>Jon’s eyes well with tears. “What did I ever do to deserve you, Martin Blackwood?”</p><p>“Well, I don’t know about you,” Martin says. “But I lied about my degree in xenobiology to go to space. Can’t believe it worked, really.”</p><p>Jon laughs, the tears spilling over. “I had a feeling, but now is hardly the time for that.”</p><p>“Oh yeah?” Martin smiles coyly. “What would you rather do?”</p><p>Jon leans forward and shows him. He’s getting better at kissing for someone who doesn’t actually have a mouth in the real world.</p><p>They wake up in the morning curled together with sunlight streaming in through the curtains. Their life isn’t perfect, but Jon feels it’s dangerously close to being good.</p><p>He hopes it can last.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Yup, I actually have an ending in sight now.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Moth Couple’s Night</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Moth Jon vs Moth Elias</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Took me forever to think of how to approach this, but here we are!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <hr/><p>Peter is by nature a cautious man. A coward, really. He doesn’t like confrontation, preferring to nip out of sight whenever things get too uncomfortable. Any jovial pretense he put up was just that—pretense.</p><p>That’s why he takes a deep breath when he knocks on the door to the cabin, silently curses his freshly hatched husband for not waiting as he exhales, and smiles.</p><p>Martin Blackwood, a man Peter’s seen and spoken with perhaps twice, is clearly expecting someone else when he opens the door.</p><p>“Hey, you’re—” Martin’s face falls as he mentally amends whatever he was going to say. “Peter Lukas.”</p><p>All the enthusiasm goes from his voice, too.</p><p>Peter keeps smiling. “And a pleasure to see you too, Mr. Blackwood! Lovely little place you have here, I must say.”</p><p>“What do you want?” Martin’s eyes narrow. “No, more importantly, how did you even find us?”</p><p>Peter’s face is starting to hurt from smiling. “I’ll spare you all the sordid details, but suffice to say an associate of yours—Basira Hussain, I think—owed my husband a favor.”</p><p>Or Elias was blackmailing her. Potayto, Potahto. Peter tried to tell Elias not to act on her information immediately, but did he listen? No. The information was already weeks old, Peter said. What if they moved, he said. No dice. Off to the damn short range shuttle.</p><p>Thus Peter is spending his night standing on this quaint porch in the arse-end of nowhere, Scotland, hat in hand, acting as a distraction. </p><p>If he had his way they would have waited, surveilled the place a bit, come up with a plan, but Elias saw Jon flitting about in the woods and immediately tore off on his own.</p><p>“He’s a bit raw over that little trick you pulled with the wine,” Peter adds, though realization is already dawning on Martin’s face.</p><p>“Oh, god! Jon!”</p><p>Martin turns and runs, leaving the door wide open. He doesn’t go for a weapon. Hell, he doesn’t even pause to waste another moment on Peter. Instead, he charges right through the back door and into the woods.</p><p>Peter hums. He’s rather glad. His hand goes to the stun pistol he was going to pull if Martin got violent. He didn’t have a ‘real’ weapon on hand given all the time he spent in space. Just as well. He doesn’t much care for getting his hands dirty, either. Not directly, not unless it involved servicing the Tundra. Ships he likes—people, not so much. Better to pull some strings and make them disappear when necessary. He has the connections for it. He wishes Elias let him do that with Jon instead of attempting that grand experiment with... whatever that was he found.</p><p>A saying about wishes and horses springs to mind as Peter trails Martin at a sedate pace. He admires, even envies what a cozy little cottage he and his boyfriend have together. He pauses to look at the knitting in progress Martin abandoned to answer the door and wonders why he doesn’t have a hobby of his own, only to remember keeping the Tundra running essentially <em>is</em> his hobby. There’s no real reason for him to take such a direct hand in its maintenance when he could just hire a proper crew. </p><p>He pulls out his data pad, noting the lack of signal—he didn’t think it still possible these days, but the data wars never ceased—and made a note to service the shuttle later. The trip down to the earth’s surface was rather harrowing. </p><p>The thought of telling Elias to just leave all this alone hadn’t crossed Peter’s mind before, but it’s sounding better all the time. Maybe now he’ll insist.</p><p>If Elias doesn’t kill Jon first—or vice versa. Peter’s not sure which mothman has better odds in a fight, but does love a vicious bastard.</p><hr/><p>Elias doesn’t know what he’s doing. </p><p>This isn’t like him—tearing off without a carefully concocted plan. Something about seeing Jon soaring through the trees enraged him to the point he could think of nothing but catching up to him and tearing his wings off.</p><p>The only problem is Elias doesn’t know how to fly. Jon does. He’s had much more time to practice, while Elias has barely had time to clean himself up after emerging from his cocoon. Elias’s wings flutter against his back with the desire to take flight, but it clearly isn’t as simple as all that.</p><p>If it involves thinking happy thoughts he’s also out of luck, as his mind wants only for violence. It is not a side-effect of the serum. Elias wishes he could say it was, but it’s purely human jealousy and rage at seeing Jon thriving in his new form. How can he make it look so easy? Graceful? Natural?</p><p>The sound that rumbles low in Elias’s throat isn’t quite a proper growl—more an angry trill.</p><p>Even from high above, Jon hears and falters in his joyous, looping flight. Elias retreats to the shadow of the nearest tree, silently cursing himself for letting his emotions get so out of control. </p><p>He’s better than this, damn it—better than Jon.</p><p>Peter was right. They should have waited. Everything is too raw. Elias barely knows how to deal with his extra arms, let alone wings, and there’s Jon flying. If things had only gone according to plan, he could have... he doesn’t even know anymore. Remained in control of the project? Kept Jon as a pet?</p><p>He has no idea. Elias recalls the nightmare he had before he burst from the cocoon. Honestly, what <em>was</em> the original point? </p><p>A voice echoes through the forest. </p><p>Martin. He’s calling Jon’s name.</p><p>Jon lands in the clearing tantalizingly close to the tree Elias is hiding behind. </p><p>“Jon!” Martin yells, getting closer. “Jon, they found us! Elias and Peter are here!”</p><p>Jon’s antennae go stiff with horror at the news. Elias tries to smile, but it only makes his proboscis twitch. All the more reason to pounce right then and there, work out all his rage while they’re still alone. </p><p>Jon squeaks in surprise as Elias tackles him.</p><p>An excellent start, but things immediately go south as it becomes apparent Jon’s much more adept at using all his hands. Elias is awkwardly flailing about as if he still only has two while Jon pushes his head back with one hand, grabs his arms with two others, and yanks hard on one of his antennae. The last move hurts as much as though he kicked Elias in the crotch, overloading him with sensation that briefly whites out his vision and makes him tense up in shock.</p><p>The antenna Jon left free whips around wildly, making Elias painfully aware of how long the damn things are. Jon’s aren’t quite so bloody unwieldy. </p><p>And at some point in his flailing Elias makes contact with Jon’s own antennae. The sensation is far worse, like pressing two live wires together, and the fighting stops abruptly as they’re both overwhelmed by a circuit of raw tangled emotion. Jon’s fear, Elias’s rage, Jon’s anger, Elias’s confusion that Jon’s not as angry as he is at his wretched condition, Jon’s pity.</p><p>Elias howls and pulls away, falling to the ground in a graceless tangle of limbs. It isn’t fair. He was supposed to be triumphant. He can’t be brought even <em>lower</em> than Jon! </p><p>A horrible keening noise echoes through the forest. It’s some time before Elias realizes it’s coming from him, but that doesn’t mean he stops.</p><hr/><p>It was too much to hope the unearthly wailing was, in fact, the pained cries of Jon as Elias tore him to pieces. Peter is just glad he had no actual money riding on the bet he just lost.</p><p>Martin is standing some distance from the scene in confusion when Peter catches up. </p><p>Even Jon, who somehow ended up a much less ostentatious looking monster than Elias, is standing back awkwardly as Elias howls into the night sky. Either the difference has something to do with mixing that unholy goop with wine, or that’s just Elias. Hell if Peter knows the science of it all, but he wouldn’t put it past Elias to manage to look fancier just on sheer principle.</p><p>“He does this sometimes.” Peter has to shout over the caterwauling. “Only usually not so loudly.”</p><p>Expressing themselves in a healthy fashion was something neither Peter nor Elias did well. A lawyer once mentioned it somewhere during the proceedings of their third divorce. That lawyer was fired—because really, the absolute gall.</p><p>Martin startles at Peter’s helpful information. He leaps to shield Jon from him, arms spread wide, and all the while Elias remains oblivious to the arrival of either man on the scene.</p><p>The noise dies down a little bit when Elias curls completely in on himself, but he’s still sobbing, still an utter wreck at the unfairness of it all. He’s not used to such humiliating defeats. It’s why he’s <em>usually</em> one for very careful planning.</p><p>Peter sighs. He hates to do this in front of witnesses. </p><p>He keeps his gaze firmly on Elias as he steps forward, just so there’s no misunderstanding, and kneels down beside him. Elias’s huge wings are like a blanket fanning out around him. Peter hesitantly reaches a hand out, not sure where it’s best to touch him as tightly as he’s curled up. One of his antennae is bent, clearly injured, so perhaps it’s best not to touch him just yet. Peter doesn’t look up.</p><p>He can feel Jon and Martin watching him. It’s awful. </p><p>Peter leans in close so they—hopefully—can’t hear as he starts to softly sing. It’s also so they can’t see how his cheeks burn.</p><p>He can’t see whatever Elias calls ears for all the fur, but his crying dies down and his head perks up as he recognizes their ridiculously personal song. Elias lifts his head to look at him with huge, tear filled eyes. Peter stares hard at him in return, everything in his expression saying ‘please appreciate that this is mortifying.’</p><p>It’s also extremely surreal to think this thing is his husband. Any given person who called Elias a monster over the years would no doubt be gratified to know it’s literal now.</p><p>Peter keeps singing under his breath. Song’s almost done. Might as well finish.</p><p>If either of the bastards watching laughs, he <em>will</em> open fire. It’s not easy to kill someone with a stun pistol, but it’s not impossible. You just have to keep firing until the battery dies or their heart stops, whichever comes first.</p><p>They’re both silent. </p><p>Peter is slightly disappointed.</p><hr/><p>Elias slowly uncurls from his little ball of misery and throws his arms around Peter. He mashes his face against his and... it will just have to suffice as a kiss.</p><p>Someone awkwardly clears their throat.</p><p>Oh, right. </p><p><em>Them</em>.</p><hr/><p>Peter helps Elias up to his feet. Elias clings to him like a koala. He’s certainly fuzzy enough for it.</p><p>“Excuse me,” Martin yells. “This is all very touching, but it doesn’t change what you did to Jon!” He points angrily at Elias. “And what he <em>just</em> tried to do!”</p><p>“That’s true.” Peter admits. It makes for a very strange standoff there in the woods—he and Elias against Martin and Jon. He squeezes Elias’s waist even as he addresses Martin. “But do you <em>really</em> want to make any of this public?”</p><p>He feels Elias go rigid under his grasp at the reminder his existence now also needs to remain hidden.</p><p>Martin sputters with rage, balling his hands into fists. “Then why did you even come down here? Just to fuck with us?!”</p><p>Jon puts a steadying hand on Martin’s shoulder. He must see what’s written all over Elias’s body language.</p><p>“What can I say?” Peter smiles innocently. “Elias was very keen to visit.”</p><p>He leaves out the bit about how he just hatched. Probably a bit obvious given the apparently one-sided fight and the subsequent breakdown.</p><p>Elias leans heavily against Peter. All the fight’s gone out of him now. Peter can’t help but notice he hasn’t signed a word in his own defense, but after sustaining such a catastrophic blow to his pride, it figures Elias wouldn’t feel like talking.</p><p>Jon notices, too. He angrily points at Elias.</p><p>“Are you even sorry?” He signs.</p><p>Elias stares at him for a long while, making it very evident the forest has gone silent after all the commotion, before untangling two arms to reply.</p><p>“I am now.”</p><hr/><p>Elias raises his hands to say something more, but stops. No excuses. No lies.</p><p>Instead he signs, “You win. I’m done. We’ll leave you alone now.”</p><p>He lets his arms drop with a note of finality. The other set of arms—his original arms, remain wrapped around Peter. He should have listened to him earlier, but he’ll be damned if he’ll admit he was right.</p><p>Elias is tired. He just wants to go... well, there’s no home to go to after so much time spent on the research station, now that he thinks of it. His place in London? Impossible now. There’s nowhere left to go but Peter’s damned ship.</p><p>He’s about to turn to leave, pulling Peter along with him, when Jon surprises him by reaching out.</p><p>Jon’s BSL vocabulary is too limited to eloquently say what he means, but Elias gets the gist from him filling in the gaps with improvised signs.</p><p>They’re the only ones of their kind—and scientists. They might as well stay in touch to compare notes as things develop. Not as though they can share those notes with anyone else, right?</p><p>Elias may be bitterly inferring a lot of added meaning.</p><p>Martin and Peter look on, not having much say in the mothman discussion. </p><p>Martin sighs.</p><p>“If you’re sure,” he says to Jon. “Then... Okay. I’ll back you up.”</p><p>Jon nods and assures him limited contacted only, eyeing Elias as he signs it.</p><p>Martin finally turns a pointed look at Elias. “And if you get any ideas about making more moth people? I’ll kill you.”</p><p>Peter barks a laugh that draws a glare. Martin misunderstands, thinking he doesn’t believe him, but Elias gets it. They both know he’s deadly serious. It’s one of Peter’s approving laughs.</p><p>So they’ll keep in touch after all.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>The number of chapters may yet change<br/>again, but we’re close to the end!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This is all because the other stuff I’m writing has a grievous lack of jonmartin, and the excuse for mothjon was just a bonus.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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